The Thinker Challenge
by MarksandSpence
Summary: The Thinker Challenge offers a prize of 2 million to the first group to create a working prototype capable of transcribing the thoughts of a human being directly into a visually accessible form. Its intellectual sponsor, Dr. Sio Stanton, is a prickly astrophysicist with ambiguous motives who, after hiring Sherlock Holmes on a whim decides to make him an interesting offer.
1. Chapter 1: This is Not the Beginning

**Title:** The Thinker Challenge

**Author:** Mad (marksandspence at yahoo dot com)

**Setting:** Sometime post Series 3 of the BBC1 series, Sherlock.

**Rating:** Two versions: One PG, one NC-17. If you are reading this on , then it is the PG version with mild sexual content. If you are _over 18_ and would like to see the story with naughty bits, then go to Adult fan fic . org (direct links seems to get edited out).

**Summary:** The Thinker Challenge offers a prize of £2 million to the first group to create a working prototype capable of transcribing the thoughts of a human being directly into a visually accessible form. Its intellectual sponsor, Dr. Sio Stanton, is a prickly astrophysicist with ambiguous motives who, after hiring Sherlock Holmes on a whim decides to make him an interesting offer. Amusement, sex, drugs, social awkwardness & brotherly conflict ensue. Setting is post Series 3.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based solely on the television show Sherlock that airs on BBC1, written by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I borrow their universe to play in and do not claim any ownership or intend to make any money off of this fun hobby of mine. All characters, except the ones that I have created, belong exclusively to them, the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's estate.

**Feedback**: As always, feedback is much appreciated.

**Author's Note: **_In truth, I was inspired to write this story because I simply wanted an excuse to think about Sherlock having sex. I could not seem to rid myself of the idea, frankly, and not only because of the fact that I find the character attractive, but moreso because he is a rather prickly and nearly asexual sort as depicted and so it presented a challenge in order to feel believable. But I'm not very good at PWP, so then I had to think about what sort of person he would likely have sex with and in what scenario it might occur. Which then led me to create a character and a situation. Suddenly, I had written 30 pages and still had not gotten to the sex bits! I guess I just had so much fun writing for Sherlock and John and Mycroft, that I got a bit carried away. Plus, it turned into something more and I got rather attached to my OC. Still, mostly just a fun, fluffy, romantic piece, sprinkled with some ideas on brains and gender and sex. I wrote the scenes/chapters out of chronological order based on what popped into my mind. I am leading with a chapter that takes place roughly halfway through the timeline of the story, but all other chapters I have placed in rough chronologic order._

_FYI: There are 17 chapters and an Epilogue. I am putting the finishing touches on the last three of them, so the entire story should be completed over the next couple of weeks. Happy reading!_

**Chapter 1: This is not the beginning.**

"Why are you so angry?" Sherlock asks calmly with a look of genuine confusion.

Sio steps forward and shoves him again, this time with less force, as if perfunctory.

"I don't know. I seem to be angry all the time," she responds, scowling down at the ground.

"And yet, I don't see you assaulting the nurses, or whatever sort of people work here. So presumably…"

She interrupts, "He's my _brother_. I don't like anyone knowing…_this_." She glances around the courtyard, then focusing on the bench a few yards away with a single form sitting slightly hunched, "…_him_."

"But he was so easy to find. It's not as if you took great pains to hide his existence. _John_ could have found him."

"Took you four months," She says with a hint of satisfaction.

"Yes, but I hadn't thought to look. I had no reason to deduce…" He stops with a brief head nod and side-glance. "I take your point."

Avoiding eye contact, she crosses her arms and speaks in a voice that no one else would find fraught. "There are criminally few things capable of evoking an emotional response from me. These walls, these _people_, has seen more humanity in me than… they are perhaps the _only_ people who would not describe me as a heartless freak."

"The human computer," he involuntarily utters. She looks up to glare at him. She has always hated that nickname. He smirks gently, "but highly functional."

She continues, "As you might imagine, I do not enjoy sharing space in here with anyone with whom I share space out there."

"You're deflecting. Besides, we do not currently share space _out there_ anymore, remember?"

She shrugs. "You might say something horrible to him."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

"You do, regularly, say horrible things to people. Its just a reflex, I get it, but…."

He scoffs, "But he's in a _coma._"

"He _is not_ in a coma," she states plainly.

Her intonation reveals her lack of flexibility on the subject, which piques his interest.

"Was he always this way?"

She can tell by this question that he has been there for some time before her arrival.

She shakes her head. "What did you say to them?"

"I said I was part of the Thinker Challenge."

"It had to be in the papers. There was no other way," she answers, resigned. "I suppose I will have to have a word with the staff."

"Its unlikely anyone else will make the link between that and your brother. Thanks to you, they all think it is a matter of selfish convenience."

"I do get hand cramps," she responds while wiggling the fingers of her writing hand. "And having to wait for confirmation is a nightmare and frankly, insulting. I'm a bloody _national treasure_."

"Don't you think people would work harder if they thought it could be a tool for the _disabled_? The world is filled with sentimental fools."

"Fools rarely solve problems. Money speaks loudly to those most able. Besides, my motivation is still ultimately selfish. I'm not doing it for the _community_."

"Where did you get the prize money? Unlikely DBIS would go for anything quite so fringe."

"Don't be lazy. Since when do I have to _tell_ you things?"

He responds with a mock frown. He looks back over to the figure on the bench. "Would you have ended up like him… if we hadn't stopped it?"

Brushing aside her involuntary fixation on the 'we' of that sentence, she tenses slightly, "I think so."

"When did it happen?" He asks.

"We were eight. There was an accident, but he was already losing, so I don't know if it even made a difference. They found him with a bump on his head and decided that was it."

"Netball." He responds after a moment of thought.

She nods without acknowledging the quickness of his deduction.

"I played to spend time with my father – it was the only thing we had in common. He didn't bother with Daniel; he was a boy and so everyone quickly pegged him as the cleverer one - a genius - and allowed him to stay inside to read his books. I was a girl and they treated me differently from the beginning, though we _were_ the same. Different expectations, different outcomes. I had to learn to balance, to separate. Soon, I could read in an hour the books Daniel grappled with all day. But I could also slow it down and walk out the door."

"Have you tried…?" he makes a stabbing motion to his leg.

She reflexively touches her left thigh, "Close enough. He has plenty of brain activity." She adds, almost wistfully, "He's not in a coma."

After a brief pause, "They _do_ think you're a freak, by the way."

"How did y… ? Oh. Just because I don't stagger around, blubbering like a fool, felling tissue boxes. Impossible standards," she rants, acting mildly annoyed.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he says, straightening up and pulling his coat together. He reaches in his pocket, then thrusts his hand out towards her, dangling a handkerchief.

"What's that for?" She responds, confused.

"For the blubbering," he responds with a self-satisfied smirk. "But please wait until I leave to get started."

She waves it off, but steps forward to give him an awkward little shove on the shoulder. She looks surprised and then shrugs, "Still a bit angry."

He looks at her a moment, hesitating. He notices her hair is tied up tightly in a bun. A flicker of uncertainty stops his momentum, as if he is waiting for her to say or do something else. She steps back, fixing her gaze on him. She crosses her arms and takes in a breath.

"Not to sound melodramatic, but you've ruined it for me."

"Ruined what?"

"My hobby."

"I'm trying to find a way to take that as a compliment, but…"

"I simply cannot stand their constant chatter. Their idiotic need for small talk, or worse, continuous validation. And the smiling…good god, I'm not a bloody game show contestant."

"Surely you had to deal with that before."

"Somehow thinking there wasn't an alternative made it tolerable."

"Don't fight against straw men. We talked…_sometimes_."

"Did we? Well, it didn't seem so bloody tedious."

After a brief pause, she adds, "I took up running. Someone said it was good for quieting the mind'– and similar to sex with endorphins and such. I ran all the way to bloody Cardiff. I thought maybe it was finally working when I stopped being able to read the street signs. _Disaster_."

"What that meant to be a joke?"

"Only the last bit," she responds.

"I'm starting to see what you mean about this place," he says, smiling slightly.

"All this is to say that I wouldn't mind if you wanted to start up again. Back to the original schedule – say, Wednesdays and Saturdays? Barring prior engagements and the like."

He freezes for a moment with an awkward stare before responding, "Oh. Right. That's a bit of a surprise."

"Is it, though? We did have sex in the street two days ago."

"It was an alley, but yes, that…_happened_. Still, you were quite adamant, not to mention rather _abrupt_, when you called it off. I took it to be final."

"Were you angry? I did nearly die because I was rushing a simulation so that we could have more time together. It seemed a sensible reaction."

"I had grown accustomed…I thought we were…friends, of a sort. You needn't have disappeared completely."

"But you already _have_ a friend."

"Regardless, as nothing has changed about our situation, why is your prior decision no longer the sensible one?"

"I thought I'd just explained; I cannot get what I need elsewhere. And perhaps I overreacted. We are two intelligent adults – we can surely regulate our time together in a sensible way."

"Surely."

"Shall I come to yours later, then? When I'm finished here?"

"But it's Tuesday," he responds, confused.

"I've got something on Wednesday this week," she dismisses.

"Right then. Tonight."

She nods; he turns and walks briskly away.


	2. Chapter 2: Meet Cute

**Chapter 2: Meet cute**

"That is fantastic. What do I owe you?" Dr. Stanton asks while putting her hand out to collect a checkbook from her assistant.

"But we didn't actually do anything," John clarifies.

"On the contrary. I was missing a variable and you provided it, thus allowing me to solve the problem. No one else had been able to do that for me."

"There was no crime, John," Sherlock offers, mildly amused.

"True. But there could have been," Dr. Stanton suggests.

"What?" John ask, confused.

"It's like an interactive, 3-D word problem. So that's theoretical physics?"

"Sometimes not so theoretical; maybe a smidge of engineering," she adds. "I am glad I took that rare bit of useful advice from Harry here and branched out from the usual channels. I'll get a paper out of this, yet."

"Henry. May name is Henry," he murmurs under his breath.

"I always hated word problems in school. But they weren't quite like this," John responds, scanning the remains of their re-enactment scattered about the room.

Dr. Stanton stands up, readying herself to leave.

"It has been a pleasurable afternoon, gentleman. Scientists can be so very dull. And a bit thick, honestly. Decide on an amount and send me a bill. Mr. Watson, would you mind terribly giving my assistant a hand with the car? There was a bit of trouble on the way here. I'd like to have a word with Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nods to John, who shrugs and heads out the door with Henry.

"So what's it like working for Dr. Stanton?" John inquires.

"She's not evil. I mean, people say she's a robot and its true that you have to have a really thick skin to work with her…and you can't be the type who needs positive reinforcement, because you'll be waiting for like, forever. But she's brilliant and she loves her work and she will, occasionally put some effort in to keep us happy," Henry replies in his American accent.

"Us?"

"Oh, the lab – a few Ph.D. students and me. She treats me like her PA, but I actually have a Ph.D. When I interviewed for a post-doc two years ago, she told me my research sucked and I'd never make it as a scientist. But she needed someone to, basically, run her life and she thought it would be good to have a physicist, since she doesn't really trust anyone else and I would actually be able to "minimally grasp" what was happening in the lab and at meetings and such."

"That sounds kind of horrible, honestly."

"Well, it was a blow, but she was right. I might have gotten another position, but I'd always have in the back of my mind that Dr. Stanton thinks that I don't really belong, so...It's worked out okay. She pays well enough that I can stay in London and I'm kind of in a groove with it. Once you get that she isn't mean spirited, but just doesn't want to spend the mental energy to, like, kowtow or deal with other people's emotions or remember your name, it's all good. All that energy goes straight into the work, so you can kinda forgive her for most things. And she's even kind of endearingly helpless sometimes – without me, I'm not sure she'd ever pay a bill or book a flight or make a cup of tea."

"Sounds eerily familiar."

"I read your blog. That's how I got the idea. Fingers crossed I get a raise out of this! Anyway, it must be amazing to work for him."

"_With_ him. We're partners."

"Sorry. Of course."

"He has his moments."

"We should get back – the two of the in the same place for too long might actually implode the universe or something."

"Tell me, Mr. Holmes, was it a less enjoyable experience now that you know it was fake?" Dr. Stanton asks.

"Is your insistence on formality a reaction to an overly casual step-mother of whom you did not approve or a more recent frustration with a perceived lack of respect, _Dr. Stanton_?" He counters, unwilling to engage her inquiry.

"Please, call me Sio."

He waits just a beat to see if she will comment further, though not expecting her to. She looks quite different with her hair down. Closer to her age. Her formality made her seem older, though her choice of clothes puts her in the right decade. Comfortable, but fashionable and flattering enough to betray a pleasing shape without boasting of any excessive effort. Her hair is a mid-brown, quite wavy, though hard to tell what it might have looked like had it not been so recently constricted. None of her other features leap out as worthy of attention – she is good looking, but wears little make-up save for a touch of tinted lip balm, which he suspects might have been forced on her by her gay assistant.

Sherlock's attention returns to her hair. It had been pulled tightly back when she had arrived and throughout their interview. Oddly, her expression has done the opposite, seeming more measured just as her hair was freed. Even her voice has changed – not the intonation, the pattern. _Curious_.

"May I call you Sherlock? What I would like to discuss with you is of a more personal nature and formality does seem incongruous."

He is not listening to the words, just focusing on the pattern, while scanning her face and manner.

"Why are you _different_ now? Is it because your assistant left? No, it started before. When you took the clip out."

She quietly smiles. No one had ever noticed so precisely before. She takes a few steps and leans against the chair.

"I'm running a simulation."

He frowns in response, not comprehending.

"You gave me the variable, so I began my analysis. No reason to wait."

"I still don't understand," he says with growing curiosity.

"You didn't look me up, then, before you took my case? I'm quite the oddity, according to some. I can partition my mind. I can leave the analytical bits chugging away at a problem while I use the rest to engage in the world. So there's the super-computer part of my brain and the 'everything else' part that deals with bodily needs, communication, etc. It's very efficient."

"But not seamless. Ah yes, John _did_ mention something about a 'Human Computer'. I wasn't really listening."

"Brains are capable of so much more than computers. Even Harry's brain. It's an insult to humanity," she complains using oft-repeated words.

"Everything else slows because it siphons energy away. Interesting. What about the hair?"

"Pull on the scalp is just irritating enough to reduce efficiency by 5 to 10% depending on the tightness of the bun."

"You rely on that," he suggests.

"It helps with the constant drive to interpret and analyze _everything_. The bombardment can be intense and distracting." As she speaks, she scans Sherlock's face for signs of recognition and sees it plainly.

"Amusing, though. And useful," he says, acknowledging the connection.

"Yes, I imagine in your profession, it would be critical. But difficult to contain without constant stimulation or distraction. Do you have a hobby?"

"What's this about, then? Idle chatter seems an unlikely pastime for you."

"Do you compose?" She says, walking towards the music stand tucked hastily to the side of the room.

"Yes. I suppose that's my hobby," he responds, feeling mildly irritated.

"Do you find it sufficiently distracting? Or do you seek out other things to help with…"

"Please get to the point, if you have one."

She nods, happy to sip to the chase. "My hobby is sex. Unlike composing, it requires a partner to maximize the experience. I have found it to be rather extraordinary both as a distraction and a release. Drugs cost money and have other undesirable side effects. Sex can calm the beast with little consequence. Well, aside from finding a partner who isn't egregiously irritating."

"Why, Dr. Stanton, are you making a pass at me?" Sherlock asks, bemused.

"A pass would imply I was interested in having sex with you right now, which I am certainly not. What I am proposing is meeting up at a later date to have sex. I presume you are inexperienced, either due to a lack of interest on your part or a lack of opportunity due to… a perceived lack of warmth, shall we say? I do not see this as a problem, mind you. I am offering to instruct you towards getting the most out of the experience. And perhaps you might even find such skills useful one day should you meet someone with whom a relationship would seem desirable. I'd wager you already have someone in mind."

"I've just had a relationship. Don't you read the papers?" He offers, unsure how to react to her directness.

"I do not. But my assistant googled you; he was hoping you were gay. Obviously a complete fabrication, the relationship. I am not doubting that you had sex, but people like us always begin by playing a part; what we imagine is appropriate or serves the purpose." She holds his gaze just long enough to emphasize her point, "I am not interested in how well you can _act_."

"_People like us_. That is a bit presumptuous," he scoffs unconvincingly.

"You regularly categorize people by the time they have hung their coat, or did I get that wrong?"

"Most people are pathetically transparent." He ads with a sly smirk, "It is _not_ rocket science."

They can hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Sio reaches for her wallet and pulls out a card.

"Get in touch if you'd like. Vulnerability is a real game changer."

He takes the card, glances at it and starts to hand it back when John and Henry return. Sio steps away, putting on her coat. Sherlock slips the card under a book.

Once they are out the door, John asks, "What was that about?"

"She asked if I'd like to study physics," Sherlock responds ambiguously.

"Like take a class or something?" John replies, a bit dubious.

"More of a tutelage. Happy to leave the science to my brother; never particularly interested me."

"A bit of a prickly one, eh? Dr. Stanton," John offers.

"I hadn't noticed."

"Overconfident, brusque, dismissive of others' ideas…Remind you of anyone?" John inquires with a lilt.

"Do we have anyone else coming in today? This turned out to be a bit of a dud."


	3. Chapter 3: The Hazards of Hoovering

**Chapter 3: The Hazards of Hoovering**

Months after their first meeting, Sherlock comes across Sio Stanton's card, which after careful consideration, he had left in a book he would be unlikely to read, stashed in a corner far from his favorite chair. Earlier that day, John had come around and while waiting for Sherlock to finish some project, had rifled through his books in a fit of boredom and impatient annoyance at having been urgently beckoned on this Saturday morning only to be kept waiting. The card had fallen on the floor, unnoticed by John and discovered later by Mrs. Hudson, who insisted on giving the carpet a quick hoover. She had put it on his music stand for safe keeping.

Things had been a bit dull lately, comparatively speaking. Mycroft had suggested he lay low for a time due to his involvement in a few high profile cases, some of which had ended badly. John was busy with the baby. Sherlock's mind was growing restless and something must be done. He had been looking for an excuse to go undercover again in his drug den of choice, but nothing presented itself. He knew since the last time, he was being watched carefully and so a reasonable excuse – very reasonable –would be required. _Why can't they just mind their own bloody business. They don't know what its like. _Biding his time was acceptable at the minute, but he needed _something_.

Which perhaps explains why, upon discovering the card on his music stand as he was preparing to attempt a new composition, he held it in his hand for quite some time and did not, as he also hadn't done before, throw it in the trash bin. He reconsidered their prior meeting in some detail. She was not unattractive. He had previously deduced that she had not come to the interview on the pretense of propositioning him. If so, she would have put more effort into her appearance —a touch of lipstick, more form fitting clothing. He knew what women do when they wish to be noticed in that way. In truth, he had done a bit of research after her departure only to discover a single picture of her looking as you might expect someone looking for that kind of attention might look. Nothing extreme, mind you, but different than the much more abundant professional pictures that appeared in the first pages that came up. And yet the picture exists. But only one…

So she had been convinced during their meeting, which he again found odd, as she neither flirted nor appeared to solicit flirtation from either himself or John.

There _was_ something appealing in her directness. Considering the subject, their private conversation was relaxing in a way. He considered the likelihood that she may have been attempting a ruse – if they were, in fact, alike enough as was her supposition, could she fool him as he was able to fool others? But what would be the purpose? Unlikely, he decided. Such a direct approach would be risky. Even he would not seek out scrutiny, particularly of someone who was likely to challenge.

So perhaps he would call. Or better yet, text. Just to see what she had in mind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

_***author's note: this chapter does contain sexual content, but has been edited to be appropriate for younger audiences. If you are over 18 and would like to read the full version, please go to . Author name: Mad.**_

Sherlock aggressively paces his flat. He hesitates a moment in front of his book shelves, restlessly twitches his fingers over a few bindings, then abandons the thought and moves on. He walks over to the kitchen table, picks up a mug, hesitates a moment before bringing it to his lips and then puts it straight back down. He brings his right hand nearer his face, rubs his fingers together and frowns at their obvious dampness. He mumbles "bugger this" as he marches over to the phone and dials hastily. As he waits for an answer, he hears the ring of a mobile phone in the stairwell. He hangs up and walks slowly to the door. When he opens it, he finds Sio holding her phone, recently fished out of her handbag.

"Calling to cancel, I presume," Sio observes without emotion.

He stands there transfixed for a moment or two. The woman before him bears little resemblance to the one from his memory and this is enough to send him into a mental loop as he tries to reconcile the two. Her chestnut hair is worn down, soft but defined curls with only a portion pulled back to reduce the bulk. Lips accented with deep red, blushed cheeks with dampened freckles, eyes made-up just enough to be resolutely hazel.

"Why don't I come in while you make your decision. I've never been fond of doorways," Sio says.

"Yes of course," Sherlock answers, still processing. He steps back from the door, allowing her to enter.

She takes her coat off revealing a rather slender fitting burgundy sweater dress worn with knee-high brown leather boots. The look is comfortable, but elegantly sexy.

Holding her coat in her hand, she asks, "Is there someplace neutral I can put this? I wouldn't want to cover anything important."

He takes it from her, but then just holds it. "The thing is, I'm not sure…"

Walking toward the music stand, she interrupts "how did you choose your violin? I find the physics of instruments fascinating. You cannot predict the precise tone of a violin based on its appearance; the texture of the wood introduces an element that can't be modeled. Well, _I_ can't if I can't, I doubt its possible."

She glances back over at Sherlock, who had hung her coat up next to the door.

"The differences are minimal once you get up to a certain standard of manufacturing. Still, its best to try them out," he answers.

"How many did you try before you bought this one?" She says, looking into the case.

"One." He shrugs, "I had a hunch."

"I was surprised to hear from you, after so much time. Are there fewer crimes in winter?"

"Less challenging, I suppose. People can't be bothered to go out."

"Shall we retire to the bedroom? Or the guest room, if that makes you more comfortable?" She asks as she glances down the hallway past the kitchen. Seeing him tense up, she says "Of course, there is no rush."

"Would you like a drink?" He asks.

"What do you have?" Sio responds, rather disinterested.

"I don't really know. I'd have to look." Seeing her confused look, he explains, "It seemed like an appropriate thing to ask."

"You should never feel the need to be appropriate when you are with me. I have no expectations."

He shifts nervously, looking like he might bolt out of the room at any moment.

"This isn't my area," he admits.

"Why do you think I gave you my card? It wasn't my area either. And, frankly, it may _never_ be your area. But as I said before, it's definitely worth having a go."

His face changes as he realizes something. "You didn't think I'd call."

"I had my doubts. Sometimes intellectuals are nearly asexual. Other times they simply haven't been given the opportunity to find out. It's easier for women, of course. Doesn't matter if you are a socially cold, cerebral snob with no experience – if you are minimally attractive, men will have sex with you. It started almost accidentally for me, but once I'd had a taste…well, I did my research. There were some awkward moments, regrettable repercussions and times when opportunities were lost. I'm offering to spare you all that."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure. Unpredictability is part of the fun." She considers a moment before continuing, "I think it might be stimulating to play the teacher." Another pause as she looks him over. "You're not my type. And _that's_ a subject I have spent some time exploring. Yet, I found myself surprisingly attracted to you after our meeting."

"I can't say I felt the same," Sherlock admits.

"You made that quite clear. And yet, you called," Sio says with a coy smile.

"Boredom?" He offers.

"That's a partial truth, but I won't pry," she says. "Do you find me attractive now?"

He spends a moment looking at her, "There was someone…you remind me of her."

"_Good_. We can work with that. I imagine the similarity is more experience than physicality?" She responds in a half questioning tone. Off his slight acknowledging nod, she says, "It will be my pleasure to reduce any asymmetries in that regard."

"Is there a timeline? I'd like to have an idea of what I am getting myself into."

"Should I have prepared a syllabus?" She says with a smile. "Lets see how tonight goes. It's _not_ really like riding a bike. If all goes well, I'd say a few weeks, maybe a month, seeing each other twice a week, give or take?"

"I don't like to talk. Or more accurately, I don't like to listen to irrelevant conversation. Will that be a problem?"

"On the contrary, I consider that a bonus."

"Do I need to provide anything?"

"Clean sheets. Clean shave. I can handle everything else," she answers. "Are you overly sensitive to fragrances? I do favor a bit of perfume."

He takes a step closer to her and inhales. "Whatever you are wearing now is acceptably mild."

She looks at Sherlock a moment, squinting her eyes slightly, "I believe what I am about to say is unnecessary in your case, but as I have been misunderstood in the past, I would prefer to be absolutely clear. This is not a relationship in the sense that I do not wish to be your girlfriend. I neither expect nor am interested in going on dates of any kind. I prefer discretion, though the degree of this is negotiable up to a point. I keep my personal life out of the workplace, so communication should be limited during the day and you should never turn up at my lab unannounced. Work takes precedence always and I expect the same is true for you. You should just assume that I _am_ having sex with others to avoid any awkward questions, though I do promise to give you my full attention when we are together."

"Is that your standard speech?" Sherlock asks with mild amusement.

"Experience has taught me to temper it slightly. Apparently such bluntness 'kills the mood'."

"Imagine that."

She lifts her eyebrows and tilts her head to the side as a sort of shrug before continuing, "Which is odd because men are often quite content with the letter of the terms. I suppose they like to believe that _they_ control them. That it is _their_ job to convince women to forego what they imagine all women want."

"But you don't think _I_ do? Hence the logorrheic version."

"I would wager you have never given such things a second thought," she answers. Sio then grins slightly and shakes her head.

"What's so funny?"

"You are the first person _ever_ to describe me as long winded. It's cute," she says with a slight eyebrow raise. Adding, "Where's your thermostat?"

"Why?"

"Assuming you are comfortable with the terms, we are about to get undressed and it's a bit frigid, don't you think?"

Sherlock stands frozen in the middle of the room, obviously having trouble mentally grappling with the situation. After a moment, he glances toward the kitchen. Sio follows his gaze and walks to find the thermostat on the wall of the far side of the room. She pushes the buttons until it reads 20 and when she turns around, she finds Sherlock standing just a couple of steps away.

She scans his face, confused at the transformation – he appears suddenly relaxed and confident. He gives her a shallow smile, takes a forceful stride to cover the space between them, pulls her to him and kisses her.

After a moment, she takes a small step back and says, "A fine performance – did you read that in a book? It won't do. Trust me, you'll enjoy it more when you drop the act."

His face falls and he tenses up again, admitting, "It's really not my area."

"Trust me. Go to the bedroom, get undressed and into bed. I'll meet you in a minute," she says, turning and walking into the bathroom.

He does as he is told.

After a few minutes, Sio appears in the door of the bedroom, dressed in a short negligee. The bust is fitted slightly with stretchy lace, the body a form fitting light blue silk with some minimal décor. It perfectly complements her shape, sexy with style. She strolls into the room, barefoot.

She stops rather abruptly after she enters the room, unable to hide her surprise. "You've got a single bed?!" She asks.

"It's custom. A bit bigger than standard," he answers.

"Cozy. It's fine," she says, sensing his tension. "Do the lights dim?"

"I'm not sure. Is that necessary?" He says, letting his eyes cascade slowly over her body.

She looks at him and asks, "How many buttons are on my negligee?"

"Twenty-none. Is it strange that there is an odd number? Or is that typical for…"

"Have I worn it before?"

"Yes, although I'd say likely as a undergarment, not for sex. There is a slight discoloration on the tip of the lace at the top, maybe a drop of tea? And a tiny pull just on the side below the waist, which you tried to fix by working with a needle on the other side…"

"How many freckles on my face?"

"Depends on if count the one on the side of your left nostril as one or two."

"_THAT_ is why we need to dim the lights." She walks over to the switch and turns it just enough to dampen the brightness. When she comes back she sits on the side of the bed. Sherlock is on his back, the duvet pulled up to his waist, his chest naked. His back is propped up with some pillows. "You need do let that part of your brain go quiet; divert that energy. Just to warn you, if all goes well, you're going to feel normal for at least ten minutes. And by normal, I of course mean…"

"Stupid," Sherlock finishes. He feels oddly compelled to touch her; as if, without conscious control, his hands would just move to her skin, flow across her body.

"It is quite pleasant when you know it's temporary." When Sio speaks now, her voice is entirely different from what it was in the other room. The tone is soft and her speech is slow and deliberate.

His eyes are drawn to the outline of her lips, rather thin at the edges, but delicately plump and pink toward the center.

"I would prefer to begin _as if_ we are starting with a clean slate. The first step toward being a good lover, and to getting the most pleasure possible out of a sexual encounter, is to understand yourself. That is why I was so adamant about avoiding the temptation to pretend – to play a part. Because although that may fool the person you are with temporarily, it will not fulfill you. And when you are not fulfilled, your partner will not be either. At least not in the sublime way that is possible. So we need to explore your desires, your sensitivities, your preferences first. And _only_ yours for the time being. All I ask is that you be honest with yourself. I will show you what some men like, what is possible. You communicate to me what pleases you, in whatever way you can. "

At this point, she takes her hand and gently places it on his chest. He tenses at first, obviously unused to the sensation. She moves her hand, slowly exploring the texture of his skin, the topology of his upper body.

"Try to breathe regularly," she whispers. "Tonight, we focus on erogenous zones."

She continues to caress his skin as she speaks, waiting for his breathing to become more regular, waiting for the tension to subside.

"I will demonstrate the most common areas of sensitivity. Some, all or none may generate a response. You may touch me if you like, while I work my way around your body. Think about whether you prefer the feel of the silk against your skin or if you would rather I be naked." She brings up her legs so that she is kneeling beside him; moving her hand up the side of his neck, she whispers, "above all…_tell _me_."_

He watches her every move with keen anticipation, struggling with his own instincts, unsure what to allow himself. Still kneeling, she moves closer to his head.

"We'll start with the scalp."

She runs her fingers, slowly and gently through his curly mop. Reaching the scalp on either side of his head, she pushes in with her fingertips and then closing her fingers, lightly tugs on the base of the hair. He moans softly and closes his eyes. Feeling him relax, she decides to move to the next one.

"Ears," she whispers as she changes position, moving down his body until she can comfortably straddle him. She then leans forward and moving to the right, takes his earlobe into her mouth while her left had manipulates the one on the other side. She gently sucks and nips at the lobe, listening for signs of enjoyment. Again, he finds the sensation pleasant, but not electric. He decides to free his hands and they move to her naked thighs. He strokes the skin of her legs, hesitating before they reach her hips.

"Lips," Sio says next, pulling back slightly to face him. She leans in, first giving his upper lip a light nibble, before engaging his mouth full on. He follows her lead and what starts as soft open kisses, evolves into a crescendoing duel of tongues and nips and fevered breathing until she pulls away abruptly…

"That's one," she breathes. "Next, neck."

She begins kissing down the side of his neck, pausing briefly here and there to nibble and suck where the skin is pliant enough. His hands are wandering freely now, up her back, over her shoulders, down her arm. When she looks up to tell him what is next, he holds her gaze and reaches forward to kiss her, his right hand holding the back of her neck through her hair. She indulges him in a deep kiss for a moment, but then pulls back again.

"Each in turn. Now, nipples," she breaths as she leans over and scoots her body back far enough to make her face level with his pectorals.

As soon as she puts her mouth around his nipple, she feels his body tighten. She sucks for a moment, then bites with _just_ enough pressure. He inhales sharply, accompanied by a telling sort of whimper. She repeats the gesture on the other side and can feel the pressure start to build. He pulls at the hair on the base of her neck to force her head up, scanning her face with an air of intense expectation.

"That's two," she says, fighting her own swelling urge to skip to the good part. "Stomach next." She kisses down the center of his chest, sliding her body further downward, the silk of her negligee like a cool draft against his skin. Reaching the right position, she lifts up to perch on her hands and knees. Leaning on her left side, she uses her right hand to caresses the smooth skin on either side of his belly button, letting her fingers submerge in the soft black hairs at the center. She applies a bit of pressure, nearing a massaging stroke before leaning over to follow her hand with soft kisses.

Sherlock watches her, fascinated; his mind trying to partition the response of his body from the inherent curiosity of it all. He feels the longing grow, a deep pit of desire swallowing up his uncertainty, his discomfort at being touched.

Sio had already felt that he was not naked under the duvet, having left on a thin pair of brushed cotton boxers. Not wanting to rush the moment, she quietly slides off the side of the bed and moving around to the end, tugs at the base of the cover until the length of his legs are exposed. There is a nearly imperceptible flinch, a slightly deeper intake of air from him when she tosses the duvet entirely off the bed and climbs onto the end.

"Toes," she says softly, lifting his left leg and moving his foot towards her mouth.

"Really?" He breathes, skeptical.

"You'd be surprised," she responds, smiling seductively. "Watch me if you don't like the sensation. Think about what you'd rather I do."

She takes each toe on his foot in her mouth in turn, wrapping her tongue around it, then gently sucking, all while massaging the arch with her hands.

When she s finished with his left foot, she offers, "we can skip the right if you'd prefer."

Blinking rapidly, he says, "I don't mind."

_Etc. etc. etc. (edited)._

Sio is the first to speak. "That was a fine start," she says causally as she gets up to go to the bathroom.

Sherlock answers with a quick laugh, laying like a lump with the side of his head bashed into the pillow.

When she returns, she finds her negligee on the floor and pulls it over her head. She turns the light switch to return the room to full light before walking toward the bed. Sherlock blinks repeatedly, then rubs his eyes.

"Everything looks….blurry," he mutters.

"It's not your eyes, it's your brain. Give it a minute," she explains.

He frowns and leans down the side of the bed to grab the corner of the duvet, which he then pulls back over himself.

"You should really consider getting a bigger bed," she says.

"Okay," he responds with a shrug.

"Oh, I could really take advantage of you in this state," she says, shaking her head. She starts putting on the rest of her clothes.

"You are free to take advantage of me anytime," he says with a boyish grin.

"Five minutes and you'll be back to yourself again," she assures him.

"I like your freckles. I thought I'd find them grotesquely distracting, but I like them," he says as he watches her dress.

She laughs, "I'm going to get a drink of water and call a taxi. When I come back, we can talk."

A few minutes later, she comes back into the room. He has put on a dressing gown and is sitting up, looking sheepish. She hands him a mug of tea.

"So?" She asks.

"I liked it all, except for the ears. Too noisy."

"Even the toes?" She asks with mild surprise.

"Best not to rule anything out at this stage," he says with mock seriousness.

"I take it you'd like to continue?"

"Yes. I think there is likely more to explore."

"Tip of the iceberg," she says seductively as she turns to leave. "I'll text you on Wednesday."

Just before she is exits the room, he calls after her, "I'm not getting a bigger bed. There wouldn't be enough room for my things."

She smiles.


	5. Chapter 5: How Science Works

**Chapter 5: How science works**

"Why are we at the science museum?" John inquires.

Sherlock hands him an ID badge and beckons him down a narrow hallway off one of the main galleries. He walks quickly, with John struggling to keep up.

John reads the badge – "Dr. Amelia Cards, University of London. Uh, Sherlock, I don't think this _disguise_ is going to work."

"They don't look at the _name,_ just the color of the lanyard_._ This isn't Parliament."

"But…_Amelia_?"

"Fine, take mine if you're too insecure in your manhood to have a woman's name for an hour."

"We're going to be here an hour?" John complains.

"More or less," Sherlock shrugs.

"I just would have had a snack or something. I thought we were getting lunch with a potential client."

"Moved to 1:30. Have some gum," Sherlock offers.

"Does this have anything to do with the case?"

"Shhhhhhh. Keep your voice down. There are people giving talks in there," he nods in the direction of the door to their left where a number of people are standing quietly.

After a moment there is applause and the doors open. They follow the crowd into the grand conference room and take two seats at the back. Sherlock instantly makes himself very comfortable, leaning back and sipping a coffee.

"I still don't understand why we are here," John whispers. Noticing the cup, "where did you get that coffee?"

"By the door, John. Pay attention."

"But…" He starts to get up

"Shhhhh. There's no time now. It's about to start."

John just shakes his head as a man at the podium introduces the next speaker. A young man takes the stage, dressed in a jacket and tie and looking quite nervous. He fiddles with the projector remote and pulls up the title slide.

_Newton's constant from a fundamental length scale: Frontiers in Black Hole Physics_

_[Note to readers, I totally just lifted the title of this talk from a Conference Proceedings. I am a scientist, but not a physicist and really am just picking something that sounds cool. Any science discussed below is complete nonsense!]_

Seeing the title, John whispers to Sherlock, "May I please have some of your coffee?"

Sherlock just frowns at him, dismissively. John notices that instead of watching the speaker, Sherlock is scanning the audience. He follows his gaze until it fixes on a particular part of the room. John squints and sees Dr. Stanton sitting cross-legged on a chair, scribbling somewhat frantically on a notepad, seemingly not listening to the talk at all. After about fifteen minutes, without even looking up, she raises her hand. When the speaker doesn't stop speaking, she looks up and starts waving her arm around like an overexcited schoolgirl.

John hears a man in front of them snigger and whisper to his neighbor, "She got officially reprimanded last year for interrupting. If she speaks before being called on, they'll revoke her membership."

She adds a finger wave to her outstretched arm. Without acknowledging her explicitly, the moderator announces, "Please save your questions for the end."

Sio shifts in her chair, then starts to nearly bounce as the speaker tries to ignore her and continue. Finally, the young man can't take it anymore.

"Yes, Dr. Stanton. Do you have a question?"

"There's a mistake. A critical one, I'm afraid." She says making a face that is nearly mock-apologetic.

"Where? Can you be more specific?" The man responds, trying to sound confident.

She looks up at his slide, scans it and then frowns.

"Oh, you haven't gotten there yet. Carry on. I'll wait."

The man sighs and resumes his talk, tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead, the confidence draining from his voice. Three slides later, Sio's hand shoots up again. The air disappears from the room as there is a collective intake of breath. The man in the row in front shakes his head and mutters, "here we go."

The moderator tries to intervene again, "Dr. Stanton, could you please let him finish and save your question for the end?"

"Well, it's not _really_ a question and I think he's gone on long enough, quite honestly." She is subtly bouncing in her chair. "I think we can all agree, lovely slides, nice font, good speaking voice; credit where credit is due. But I don't see how any of us will get anything more from this presentation by allowing Mr…. (she glances down at the abstract book) Slater to continue. His time will be better served by getting a jump start on his new dissertation proposal."

The moderator takes a deep breath. "Please, Dr. Stanton, let us have some measure of decorum."

"This _is_ the Royal Society, Mr. Moderator. I am just trying to keep things moving."

A man in the front row stands up and says with obvious irritation, "_Nullius in verba_, Dr. Stanton. Please inform us where my student went wrong."

"I thought you'd never ask. Best if I just show you." She leaps up as she says this. She is barefoot, her shoes tucked neatly under her chair. She has a small ball in one hand that she juggles around on her way up to the front. When she arrives at the front of the room, she takes the projector remote and first flips backwards through the presentation until she comes to the one that has a series of equations. She smiles over to the mortified grad student, "Seriously, nice slides. _Love_ the colors."

First, she uses the pointer, "The error is in this equation. And to a lesser extent, the next one, but that may not have affected the outcome."

She then lifts up the screen and takes a black marker to the white board and proceeds to scribble equations very quickly with her right hand, as her left squeezes the ball, periodically stopping to explain what she is doing. At one point the marker stops working and she grabs another. She turns to the audience,

"Will someone PLEASE invent a way to transcribe directly from my brain. This is insanely frustrating. I am _completely_ serious about that." As she turns back to the board, she mumbles "My kingdom for a mind reader."

After a bit more writing, "You see the problem is here. The computer codes this variable in a way that makes sense from the perspective of the programmer, but it does not work with this equation. The computer will make the same mistake every time. Its much more complicated, so the absolute solution is required, not the shortcut version that the software must take."

She writes one more thing on the board to illustrate her point and when she is finished, she quickly and undramatically lobs the ball that had been in her left had over her shoulder. The ball arcs over the crowd and comes down directly through a tiny toy basketball net held by a young woman at the edge of the row in front of where Sio had been sitting. Two rather unstylish young men in the same row stand up and shout "Nothing but net!" before sitting straight back down.

This outburst is followed by some disgruntled murmuring.

"Dr. Stanton, could you and your students try to refrain from such theatrics?" The moderator intones.

"Absolutely," She responds, smugly. "Questions?"

A man in the front row, who is leaning back in his chair with an air of intentional indifference speaks first,

"What difference will it make, honestly? No one doubts your mathematical abilities, Sio, but in terms of outcomes, applications, where does this little computer error leave us?"

"Shall I give you a moment to catch up, _David_? Perhaps your students can review the math with you over coffee. It's hardly a minor error. It could change _everything_."

"But will it? That's all that I am asking," Dr. Bane responds casually.

"I'll let you know once the simulations are finished."

"When?"

"Two weeks. Based on my preliminary calculations."

"That's impossible. Even the cluster would take three."

"It's a race then. Care to make a wager?"

"Not fair – you've already started," He shrugs, laughing it off.

"Ten minutes ago," she responds, incredulously. "I only just figured it out." She gives a mock-panic look over to her lab.

"How do we know we can trust your calculations? It's not like we can see inside your brain."

"We've been through this before, David. We get a third party to run the numbers on a verifiable computer cluster. I record my results when they come in and if they match when the cluster finally finishes, I win."

"What are you wagering?"

"My best grad student against your parking space."

He stands up and they shake on it.

John turns to Sherlock, "And that is, apparently, how science is done. Who knew?"

Sherlock has a pleased smirk on his face. "Do you find her attractive?"

"Uh, isn't that kind of sexist? I don't think Amelia would approve," he responds holding up his ID badge.

"Just curious," Sherlock responds, casually.

"She's alright. A bit intimidating."

Sherlock's phone beeps. He looks down at it.

There is a message from Sio:

_SS: Meet the lab._

_SH: Showing off?_

_SS: A bit. Impressed?_

_SH: Nice throw._

_SS: Physics. BTW, can't see you for a couple of weeks. Working. Nemesis :-_

_SH: I assumed…_


	6. Chapter 6: Mobile Blues

**Chapter 6: Mobile blues**

John and Sherlock are walking down the street with purpose, obviously on their way somewhere.

"Do you know this neighborhood? Are you sure we're heading the right direction?" John asks.

"We might be," Sherlock responds.

"That does not fill me with confidence. Maybe we should do a quick phone check." John stops and pulls out his phone. "Sorry, dead. Do you have yours?"

Sherlock sighs in annoyance. He pulls it out of his pocket and tosses it to John. He fiddles with it for a minute.

"You got a text."

"From who?"

"SS?"

John offers the phone back. Sherlock hesitates a moment and then grabs it.

"We just have to make a left on the next street," John states with some confidence.

"Right. Lead on."

After a few paces, John notices that Sherlock is lagging behind.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," Sherlock responds, unconvincingly.

"Then, come on."

They set off again. After half a block, Sherlock slows again.

"What is it?"

"I'm feeling a bit peckish. Perhaps we can stop for a minute?" he glances into the window of a café.

"Ok," John responds, now a bit concerned.

They enter the café and sit at a table. The waitress comes over.

"What can I get you?"

"Just tea." Sherlock responds.

"But you just said…." John turns to the waitress, "A plate of chips, please."

"That's not going to help with the baby weight," Sherlock offers.

"It was your idea to come in here."

"True, but I didn't order the chips. You could have gotten a salad."

John just sighs and shakes his head.

"You look a bit flushed. Are you feeling alright?"

"Not sure. I was thinking, perhaps, that since we are…_friends_…that this might be an occasion to…Friends do, occasionally ask for advice in…personal type things."

"Are we about to have a moment? Because I might just have to text Mary."

"Your phone is dead. It is _not_ a lucky coincidence. Forget it."

"No. I was only joking. Yes, friends ask for advice. It is something that friends do."

"I just don't want you to make a _thing_ about it."

"You're not going to show me a mole, are you?"

"The text. I got a text from a person…a woman…and I am reacting in an unexpected way. I suppose I could use your advice, since I seem incapable of responding myself."

"A woman?" John enthuses, which elicits a glare from Sherlock, who starts to get out of his chair. "No, don't. A woman. Yes. Sit down, Sherlock."

After some hesitation, Sherlock relinquishes his phone.

John reads:

_SS: Are you free tonight?_

_SS: You haven't responded, so likely on a case. Don't want to interfere if busy._

_SS: Same to you if I make other arrangements? Fine here. Will wait for response._

_SS: Probably._

"So, uh, give me some background here," John asks, earnestly.

"I was going to respond, but I am unsure what the 'probably' refers to. Is she _probably_ going to wait or is she _probably_ fine?"

John stifles a smile.

"I know you are enjoying this," Sherlock complains.

"Again, what exactly is she referring to when she says 'arrangements'? Did you have concert tickets or something?"

"Sex. We meet up for sex."

"Oh, right." Again, trying to hide his surprise. "That does complicate things."

"Why?"

"Sex is always complicated."

"But that's the thing. It was my understanding that _relationships_ are complicated, whereas _sex_ is not. Sex seems rather straightforward, hence its appeal."

"Lets just cover the facts first, before we get into any of that business. So you meet up with this woman for sex. Is it a paid arrangement?"

"No, John, she is _not_ a prostitute. Already regretting having brought it up."

"Ok, so you have a mutual sexual relat…(Sherlock glares at him)…agreement (?). How long has this been going on?"

"I don't know – a couple of months, maybe."

"Alright, alright. We're getting somewhere. How often do you see her?"

"Twice a week. Well, except for the past couple of weeks because she's been working."

John inadvertently mutters, "lucky bastard." He quickly adds, "Anyone I know?"

"You've met."

"Who is it?"

"God, you can be dim. I'll wait a moment while you work it out."

"Ah, the text. 'SS'." He thinks a moment. Sherlock sighs his impatience. Finally, John brightens, "Sio Stanton."

Sherlock nods and then sneers, "Perhaps you _are_ qualified to teach remedial detective work after all."

"I thought you were taking a class with her."

"It wouldn't be a stretch to say it has been… _instructional_."

John utters a juvenile sort of laugh/grunt. "So every time you said you had to rush off to class…"

"Brilliant deduction."

"So what's the problem?"

"Obviously, I _am_ busy. It is not a convenient time. And yet, I find myself hesitating."

"Are you worried that she'll be upset? Women do, sometimes, give little tests to gauge interest, commitment – things like that."

"Do they?"

"Maybe she's testing the waters and you're worried about her reaction to your choosing work over her."

He considers a moment. "I never worry about other people. I don't think that's it.

"You _actually_ sound unsure. Fascinating."

"Of course I am unsure, hence the advice business. Pay attention. What are your other ideas?"

"Maybe you're jealous. Are you exclusive?"

"The subject never came up."

"So on the days she isn't with you, she could be with other men."

"I suppose."

"And that hasn't bothered you?"

"I don't think about her when she's not with me."

"But right now, you are forced to think about it because if you say 'no', she'll find someone else. It's all right there in the text."

Sherlock blinks hard a few times, processing this.

"Primal. She talked about primal responses – I think she may have mentioned jealousy. It would explain the physical response – I'm downright _clammy_." He gives a little shudder.

"It's totally normal to feel that way. It would be stranger if you didn't."

Ignoring him, "Obviously I am not in my right mind, so you text her back as me. Tell her I'm working and…" He pushes the phone toward John.

Frustrated, John pushes back. "Just tell her you are busy, but in such a way that makes clear that you'd prefer her to wait. We really need to go…"

"Absolutely not. It violates the rules of our arrangement."

"You can change the rules. That's kind of the point, isn't it? If you _like_ her…"

Sherlock looks at him blankly. "It's not _about_ liking, John. Don't push your misguided sentimentality on me. This is simply a rare case of my body responding independently of my mind. Now that I know what's happening, I can take back control and…"

The phone rings. Sherlock abruptly drops it on the table and sits back. "It's her," he says in mild panic.

"What are you, 15? Pick it up," John says as he shakes his head, trying not to laugh.

After an awkward moment, Sherlock hastily picks up the phone and answers it.

"Yes. Uh huh. Fine." He hangs up without emotion and quickly puts the phone in his pocket and gets up to leave. "Shall we?"

"Well?"

"Well, what? We should probably take a taxi at this point."

"See, the thing and friends and advice is, you are obliged to tell us the outcome. Especially when it involves sex and your friend is an old married."

"Don't be silly, John. Let's go."

"I'm not leaving until…"

"She is delayed and so if _we_ wrap things up quickly…"

"Done!" John responds, hastily putting on his coat and rushing out the door.


	7. Chapter 7: Coffee, Shower & Shirt

**Chapter 7: Coffee, shower & shirt**

Sherlock sits in his chair in his flat, distractedly reading a book. He alternately glances over toward his music stand, at the clock on the wall and across the room to his bedroom door. He reaches for his mug of tea, but after bringing it to his mouth, he flinches at its coldness. Upon hearing a noise from the bedroom, he quickly puts the mug down and lifts the book back up to his face.

In bed, Sio's eyes blink open slowly, startled by the light. She sits up quickly, scanning the room in mild panic. Taking a breath, she fishes around under the covers until she recovers her panties, which she then slips on before reaching for her bra strewn over the bedside table. Not finding other suitable clothes, she tugs at the duvet momentarily before just deciding to get up and walk out of the room as is. She gingerly walks through the hallway, picking up the dress she has been wearing the night before from the floor.

"What time is it?" She asks, her eyes still unable to focus properly enough to read the clock.

"9:30," Sherlock responds without looking up from his book.

Sio, clearly mortified, offers, "I must have fallen asleep. Oh, God, the taxi…I always book it for 1am." She clumsily rushes over to the window, practically falling over a chair on the way.

"Hardly plausible that a taxi would wait for 8 and a half hours," he sneers.

She takes in another breath, "I apologize for keeping you…from…whatever it is you usually do at this hour. I did not intend…"

"It's fine. _I_ heard the taxi," he responds. "I wasn't entirely sure what the protocol was in that situation – I don't believe we'd covered that."

She considers this a moment, extending her preparation by taking a breath and rubbing her eyes. Crossing her arms, she leans slightly against the sofa before responding, "The truth is, when the situation is reversed and they fall asleep in my bed, I always wake them – I rarely sleep when I'm not alone. Of course it's a bit tricky if you want to see them again, as such an action can be perceived as cold. More so among women than men, in my experience."

"You've had women in your bed?" He asks with a slight eyebrow raise.

"Of course – lesbians are more familiar with female erogenous zones, which was rather critical for me when this all started. In any case, the precise timing and mechanism of bed ejection is one of the more fluid areas and unfortunately the reaction of the other person needs to be evaluated in advance. _I _would not have been upset in the least, but I have been told I am atypical. If after me you decide to switch to warm and stupid, these decisions become quite culpatory."

"I will keep that in mind," he responds, eyes returning to his book.

"Right then. Uh, I need to ask for three things. A shower, coffee and… a shirt?"

"Shower, fine. Coffee, unlikely but I'll check. Shirt?"

"The thing is, I need to go straight to the lab. The last time I showed up at work in my shagging clothes, I had to switch universities. One of the many oddities of being female; to take you seriously, they have to see you as asexual. In any case, I imagine showing up in man's clothing would be just as bad. I will figure something out. Shower first."

She emerges from the bathroom a while later, fully clothed and a bit brighter. She sees a steaming cup of coffee on the table and her eyes go wide.

"Borrowed from Mrs. Hudson downstairs. You owe me for that, as she will be pestering from now on."

"Again, sorry. But thank GOD." She picks up the mug and drinks as quickly as the temperature allows.

"I presume the parking space will soon be yours?"

"Should be. Unless David has partnered with the Japanese again. They've got a cluster the size of a VW bus."

"Might be time to consider purchasing a car."

She smiles at his cleverness and shrugs, "No one else even asked."

"I find it odd that you elevate Dr. Bane by referring to him as your nemesis. Or have I missed something?"

"He is mostly just a misogynistic blowhard with a comparatively average intellect. But he plays the game better than I can manage. He's a _people_ person."

Sherlock winces. "Say no more."

She takes another swig of coffee before sighing and putting the mug down. "I suppose its time to finish it. The fun part is done, did the data dump last night. Today I have to convince _other people_ why I am right. _You_ get to leave the paperwork to the police after you solve a case, I imagine."

"Can't your students do it?"

"Can they, though?" She lifts her head and widens her eyes a bit, "I want that bloody parking space."

Sherlock puts the book down, finally. He watches as she pulls out her phone and starts fiddling with it, as if waiting for the right moment to say something. He frowns when she fails to look up.

"What are you looking for?" He asks.

"Clothing stores. You apparently need to know the names of them to find any information on this device." She tosses the phone into her bag in frustration. Something occurs to her and she steps toward Sherlock, "Can you read me the size?" She turns around and leans over.

Surprised, he mumbles, "Pardon?"

"The size of the dress. I never remember. I have this habit of erasing useless bits of information– annoys the hell out of Harry. I don't really _shop_."

He flips the tag, "Ten."

"UK or Euro? I've made that mistake before."

"UK."

"Ten. I can remember that," she murmurs to herself.

Before she can stand up, he slips his hands around to the front of her dress, cups her breasts and pulls her onto his lap. She stiffens slightly in surprise, looking to the side.

"Last night was _different. _You left_ marks_," he whispers.

Still slightly tense, she takes a breath before replying.

"I suppose it was."

"Why?" He asks while continuing to rub his hands over the fabric of her dress.

This aspect of their interactions Sherlock enjoyed nearly as much as the physical contact – her explanations, instructions, bits of advice for future partners. She had asked him, early on, whether he found 'dirty talk' arousing – she had demonstrated and they had gauged his response. This was better. Listening to her deconstruct sex and pleasure for his consumption was titillating. A rare circumstance in which he didn't mind being instructed.

Sio found this show of sexual assertiveness from him jarring. She had already made the mental switch and was ready to focus on work. Still, she always knew his passivity would be fleeting.

"Because I wasn't teaching," she replies after a pause. In truth, it was more than that. She had let herself relinquish control – not to him, but to her own more base desires.

"I like it when you say my name…" he quietly confesses. When she doesn't respond, he adds, "Come, now. Lets _play_."

She pulls away gently and stands up. Turning to him as she straightens her dress, she offers,

"Next time. We've done _you_ and we've done _me_. Best for last..."

"Saturday?" He asks with resignation.

"Tomorrow. Come to mine at 10," she says as she puts on her coat.

Sherlock nods with a faint smile.


	8. Chapter 8: Dating for Dummies

**Chapter 8: Dating for Dummies**

Sherlock, on the phone with Mycroft "Is that really necessary?" "I don't see…." "Fine." "No need. Honestly, brother, I am not as pathetic as that." "No." "Yes." "I will surely keep you informed." He hangs up, obviously irritated.

Sio emerges from the bedroom, freshly dressed and ready to grab her coat. It is nearly midnight and she is about to call a cab on her phone. Sherlock, dressed in pajama bottoms, rather dramatically drops into his chair.

"What is it?" She inquires, seeing his obvious irritation.

"I wonder if you might do me a favor," he offers in response.

"Depends. Should I cancel the cab?" She smirks with a raise eyebrow.

"Nothing like that. I hesitate to ask, because it does break the rules of our arrangement. It's just my brother has been needling me about something. I am beginning to suspect that torturing me about it gives him even more pleasure than would my acquiescence. He seems to think it obligatory that I bring a date to a function this week – a PR sort of thing. Assuming that I am incapable of such a feat, he just called to inform me that he has procured the services of a professional on my behalf. I reflexively informed him that this was not necessary."

She freezes for a long moment before asking, "What day is it?"

"Friday."

"As in the day after tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"I'll check my calendar." Of course, what she means by this is that she immediately puts a call in to Henry. "What sort of event is it?"

"A state dinner, I'm afraid. Whatever that means."

"You are in luck. I know _exactly_ – I've researched it. I can wear my Nobel dress."

"You didn't…?"

"Not yet, but it's only a matter of time."

She starts speaking into the phone. "Am I free on Friday this week? It's nearly midnight. Ok, take a minute." She rolls her eyes. "Yes, Friday." She looks over at Sherlock "What time?"

"Seven – ish." He responds with an uncertain shrug.

"Seven. A state dinner. Yes. It's a date. If it was a meeting, I would have said so, wouldn't I? Yes, not a monkey, a man. I can wear my Nobel dress. Calm down, Harry. Why would I want to do that? What's wrong with my nails? I don't know. Fine. I'll leave it all up to you. Take a pill or something."

"It's fine," she says to Sherlock as she is putting way her phone.

He nods.

She turns back, briefly as she is about to head out the door.

"Do I come here? Or do we meet there? Or is there a car?" She asks.

"I have no idea," He admits.

Tbc….


	9. Chapter 8b: Date Night

**Chapter 8: Dating for Dummies**

Part 2, Date Night.

_**Author's note: I had a lot of trouble with this chapter for some reason. Which stinks, because it is roughly in the middle of the story and I can't *really* post any of the other chapters I have written until after I finish this one. Other than the smut, obviously. But I feel like I need to finish this first (or I may never get to it). The problem is that when I conceived of this chapter, I only had a vague notion of what it would entail – a few plot points, some bits of relevant dialog, a little exposition. But the context of it all got very complicated, very quickly. Maybe it is the inclusion of so many characters and trying to integrate events into the melee of conversations. Anyway, I gave it a good college try…. **_

As it happens, a car _had_ been arranged by Mycroft to pick up Sherlock and his date at Baker Street on the evening of the ceremony. The event itself was to be a rather upscale cocktail party with drinks and heavy hors d'oeuvres during which Sherlock and his "team" would be official recognized for their service to the state, along with other individuals thought deserving of such an honor. Mycroft had insisted on putting his brother on the list of recipients as a way to dislodge the public perception of Sherlock as a sort of vigilante, particularly after the most recent spate of high profile cases, which had gotten an embarrassing amount of press coverage. In addition, he needed to improve Sherlock's reputation with TPTB, as his methods were often described as sloppy and careless. And yet, his involvement in affairs of state were needed from time to time, so this was a seemingly harmless way to smooth things over a bit.

Sio and Sherlock are sitting in the back of a car, on the way to the dinner. They both seem rather tense. Sio is dressed in an appropriately formal, yet feminine yellow evening dress. Her hair is tamed, but worn down; She is wearing more make-up than usual, including a set of modest false lashes, and a pair of tall leather boots with a significant heal. Sherlock is wearing the same suit he wore to John's wedding.

Sherlock gives her a once over and observes, "You look…unprofessional."

"That's what I was going for. I think Harry used the term 'arm candy,'" she responds.

"Don't know if I'd go _that_ far," he says without thinking.

Taking no offense, she responds, "Hopefully just enough to divert attention away from my conversational skills. For women at least, the more attractive you look, the less attention people pay to what you say."

"In that case, probably better to have diverted their attention downward," he offers with a glance toward her cleavage.

She frowns, fiddling with the top of her dress. "Not much to work with there; its my _Nobel_ dress, for gods sake. Can't look like a pop star in front of the Swedish Royals."

Sherlock smiles, addling quietly as he looks away, "You look lovely."

Sio starts rooting around in her tiny glamour handbag, pulling out a bottle, "I'm going to take a pill. Is there any water in here?"

"Can I have one?" Sherlock asks, half joking.

"These aren't the kind of drugs you're used to," she dismisses, popping one in her mouth.

"What is that supposed to mean?" He asks casually.

She looks at him rather sharply, "In case you hadn't noticed, Sherlock, I'm rather clever. Of course it is entirely your business what you get up to when you're not with me, but do _not _take me for a fool."

"Fine."

"Good."

After a pause, Sherlock says, "we're picking up John and Mary on the way."

"Mary?"

"John's wife."

"So _that's_ why you had the suit. Looks much better on," she says with an approving eyebrow raise.

He squints at her and says, "Your hair is straight."

"And you are getting an award for detective work? It's been five minutes," she playfully points out.

"It's only hair," he dismisses.

"I don't know why I let Harry take control – dressed me up like a bloody doll. He was downright giddy. And maybe a bit drunk."

"Perhaps I should have brought _him_ as my date."

"I think he'd swoon if you said that in his presence. But back to tonight – I can't go in blind. What does Mary do?"

"I have no idea," he responds without thinking.

She thins her lips, "That's informative."

He pauses a moment and then adds, "Wait. I believe she works _with_ John in some capacity. A nurse, perhaps?" Scanning her face, he gauges her level of stress. "I am genuinely surprised. You interact with people all the time."

"I can flirt and I can discuss work. The idea of being in a room full of people with whom I have nothing in common terrifies me. I tried it once before – similar situation to this and it was a bloody nightmare. I felt like an alien."

"From a vastly advanced culture."

"_Your_ words," she replies with a nod.

"What happened?"

"Never saw him again."

"Oh."

She takes a breath and glances over at Sherlock. "I'd rather _that_ didn't happen. So I'll try. And knowing I have to try is what's making me tense."

"You don't have to try too hard. I never do," he responds.

"Who else?"

"At our table, there is just Mary, John, Lestrade, Molly Hooper and dates if they've brought them."

"Lestrade is the Detective Inspector – I think you've mentioned him. And Molly?"

"She's a chemist*."

_[*Author's note: Ok, so I seemed to have gotten this wrong. I thought Molly had a chemistry specialty, though she worked in the morgue. But when trying to verify, I could find no mention of it. Balls. Leaving it in for now…]_

"Oh, thank god. I love chemists. I look around the room and see mass, motion, potential, equations; chemists see molecules, reactions, altered states. I can totally relate to that."

"She works in the Morgue."

"Still."

"And…" Sherlock begins.

"What?" Sio asks.

"She rather fancies me."

"Right."

"In a pretty serious way. She's drawn to sociopaths, poor girl."

"So what you're saying is she is going to hate me."

"Well…"

"It is never a good idea to be on the bad side of a chemist. Especially at a drinks party."

"She's harmless. She'll probably just drink too much and cry."

"Will your brother be at our table?"

"No. He's much too important for that."

"Is he like you?"

"Absolutely not," he answers quickly. Then bobbles his head, "Depends on how you look at it, I suppose. He spent our entire childhood convincing me I was stupid and until we interacted with other children, I believed him."

"Like a typical big brother, then."

"Nothing about Mycroft is typical."

The car stops and John and Mary climb into the limo. Brief greetings are exchanged, followed by mostly awkward silence for the rest of the ride to the venue, which is thankfully short. There are some cameras at the entrance and general mayhem. Inside, there are tables with food and staff members milling about with trays. Mostly, people get drinks and stand near the table they were assigned, chatting.

Mary, John, Molly and Lestrade are standing around with drinks. After brief introductions, Sherlock and Sio disappear to the bar across the room. There is a flood of whispering.

Mary says to John, "I thought you said she wasn't very pretty."

John replies, "I had no idea she would clean up so well."

"She's not _that_ pretty," Molly says, taking a gulp from her cocktail.

"I'm sure I've met her before. It'll come to me," Lestrade says.

"So are they actually dating? Or did she just agree to _a date_?" Mary asks.

"Makes quite a difference, that." Lestrade chimes in, widening his eyes.

"Why would you say that?" Molly asks, perplexed.

"Oh Molly. I adore him, too, but grant that he is a bit…._odd_," Mary answers.

Lestrade shakes his head, "Not everyone's cup of tea, that's for sure. Wouldn't really peg him as a ladies man," he adds with a laugh.

"They've been seeing each other, but who knows what he's up to," John shrugs.

"He's not exactly doting," Mary observes, watching them from across the room.

Molly smiles.

Lestrade puts his drink down on the table, loudly. He smiles, devilishly. "Got it. I met her at a Christmas party once. She was there with a guy from the Yard, name of Tim Riordan. He told some stories. Interesting choice. Would not have seen that coming."

Before anyone has time to react, Sherlock and Sio return to the group. Sherlock lurks without speaking, glancing around the room.

Molly asks Mary, "How's the baby?"

"You didn't bring it, did you?" Sio asks in horror, glancing around the table.

"No, thankfully we found a sitter. A much needed night out," Mary responds, perplexed.

Sio responds, nervously, "People always seem to want to push babies at me; Because I have breasts, I suppose. I have no idea what to do with them."

"Most people usually just make some silly noises and give them a cuddle," Molly snips.

Sio continues, speaking light-heartedly, but too quickly, "Babies are a complete enigma to me. Luckily, none will be subjected to my ignorance – the minute I turned 21, I had my tubes tied. Eggs frozen, of course because, you know, what a waste and if someone else wants to raise the little buggers, more power to them." When she is finished, she takes a large drink from her glass.

Molly shakes her head and turns back to John, "Do you think you'll have more?"

"Ask us once we've slept for more than 4 hours in a row," John quips.

More intermittent chit-chat

Sio turns to Mary, "I love what they were able to do with your dress; where did you get your alterations done?"

"Excuse me?" Mary asks, confused.

"Obviously it is your wedding dress, altered for the occasion - tinted, let out a bit to accommodate the baby weight. They did a lovely job."

Mary gives a look to John before responding. "Thanks. Seemed a waste to go out and buy a new dress just for this."

"I completely agree. I will have to do something similar with this one, so if you could let me know where you took it…."

"Planning on getting married in it?" Mary jokes.

Sio blinks wide-eyed in obvious confusion. "I'll need it for the Nobel banquet," she responds.

"Oh, have you been nominated?" John asks.

"Not yet. But isn't that what all girls spend their youth dreaming about? When I saw the dress, I knew it would be perfect."

Awkward glances around the table.

There are other attempts at conversation, some terribly awkward, others not so much, some even a bit fun. Things generally get better, the more everyone has to drink and the less hard Sio tries to make what she thinks is appropriate conversation.

Later on, after the formal commendations have been presented the atmosphere becomes more casual. There is music playing. Sio, a little drugged, has resorted to party tricks. Namely, catapulting bits of food/paper/ice at various targets around the room. It seems to amuse everyone, and certainly goes over better than her awkward attempts at conversation. Sherlock was particularly impressed by her landing a pea in Mycroft's scotch glass from across the room. People start to dance.

Lestrade asks mischievously, "You two going to dance?" He has been plotting to get a picture of Sherlock and Sio together, but they have spent most of the evening simply being in proximity.

Sio looks over at Sherlock. She can't read his expression. Sensing his conflict, she responds, "Lets make it a game, shall we? How about … if I can get this cherry to land on that piece of cake – second one from the end of the table – after bouncing it off of the ice sculpture in the far corner, I will dance."

"Impossible," Lestrade scoffs.

"I wouldn't be too sure," Sherlock says, secretly disappointed.

Sio scans the room. Through her eyes, we see the movement trajectory of all the catering staff. We see the various potential trajectories of the cherry bouncing off the ice sculpture, we see her adjust the spoon catapult she has on the table. She sucks on a piece of ice to get it the right shape. She sucks the excess juice from the cherry and places it on the spoon. When everything is in place, she slams her hand down on the spoon. The cherry flies over one table, hits the ice sculpture, bounces off the hat of one of the staff and heads directly for the cake on the targeted table. But just before it reaches its target, a staff member steps in the way and it bounces to the side.

"Bugger!" She says.

Sherlock face brightens as he stands up. "Did you do that on purpose?" He asks.

"Not at all. I don't know how I missed," she replies, confused.

On the way to the dance floor, they are intercepted by Mycroft. Sherlock makes the introduction.

"Sio Stanton, my brother Mycroft."

"A pleasure, Dr. Stanton. I am rather cross with my brother for keeping you to himself all evening. Perhaps I can have this dance?"

"I suppose," Sio answers tentatively. And they continue to the dance floor for a slow waltz.

"I must say, I am rather a fan of your research. I saw your talk at Cambridge. Intriguing."

"You are interested in astrophysics? I thought you were a government man."

"I have a great many interests, I assure you. Yes, I always thought one of us should have gone into science. I am much too lazy, but Sherlock could have done _something_ more productive."

"He'd be bored to tears doing anything but what he is doing, I imagine. He has even less tolerance for the tedium that I do."

"I don't think I'll ever quite understand what drives him into the _sordid_," Mycroft responds.

"So what sort of government man are you exactly? Is it all spies and international intrigue?" Sio asks playfully.

"Quite the contrary, I am afraid. Mostly a desk man, myself. But there is always intrigue of a sort," Mycroft responds with a rare twinkle.

"I ask because I have an interest in an area of research that someone suggested to me might already be in development for use in the arsenal of anti-terrorism technology. I'd rather not waste valuable time reinventing the wheel."

"Now you've piqued my curiosity. Is this a new area for you?" Mycroft asks.

Sio nods. "Have you heard of neural transcript visualization?"

As Sio and Mycroft dance, Sherlock walks across the room to where the cherry was meant to land. He scans the area, grabs a piece of cake and takes a bite. He is suddenly struck by something. There is an extra person in the room – an extra staff member. Someone came in just at that moment when Sio let loose the cherry. Odd because the evening was winding down, so why add a new wait staff? He scans the room, going over the image of each staff member in his mind. He recalls an even number; half men and half women. All accounted for, no sign of the extra. He walks back over to the dance floor, not noticing that Sio and Mycroft are engaged in a rather animated conversation. He walks straight up to them and taps Mycroft on the shoulder.

"I'm not cutting in. Who is in charge of the caterers?" He asks abruptly.

"Why?"

Sherlock gives him am irritated look.

"Mrs. Daniels over there by the ice sculpture."

"There is an extra person," Sherlock explains.

Mycroft makes the connection instantly. "I'll alert security."

"If you had to pick a target from the guests tonight, who would it be?"

"There are a couple of ambassadors from the usual conflict ridden areas. Table 4 and Table 2. Mrs. Strailinsoy at table 4 is currently not with her party."

"The cake was at Table 4," Sio offers.

Sherlock nods. "Want to help out? Look for an ambassador in the ladies room."

Sio blinks a few times, taking in the situation before responding, "What does she look like?"

"Sixty, white hair, blue shimmery dress," Mycroft responds.

Sio shrugs and heads to the ladies room. Sherlock follows her down a rather narrow hallway to the door while Mycroft bolts off to alert the guards. Sio enters, finds the ambassador and noticing that someone else is in one of the stalls, she waits for her to leave before exiting. The older woman is quickly met with a security guard who discretely shuffles her back into the main room. Sio emerges from the ladies room a few moments later. She takes a few steps toward Sherlock, who is now watching the main room, with his back to the hallway containing the bathrooms. As her strides are less measured this time due to the excitement, she wobbles on her high heals and her left foot collapses to the side and she ungracefully falls to the floor. Exactly at that moment, the person who emerged from the bathroom just after her swings a bat that crashes hard into the wall instead of onto Sio's head, to which it was most definitely aimed. Sio shouts, "Bloody hell" as she scrambles to get to her feet. The person with the bat tries again, but Sio rolls to the side. Luckily, Sherlock quickly notices the commotion and charges down the hallway, scaring off the person with the bat who drops it and flees. Chaos temporarily erupts, as the security breech is now abundantly obvious and the woman with the bat is pursued. There is a temporary lockdown, etc. etc.

John finds Sio on the floor and asks if she is hurt.

"Just twisted my ankle," she says, a bit dazed. Looking at the smashed plaster on the nearby wall, she adds, "Someone tried to kill me. That was rather surreal."

"Any idea who would want to do something like this?" John asks.

"Absolutely not. Everyone likes me. Ok, they may not _like_ me, but I'm just a scientist. What do I possibly have that someone else would want?" Sio responds.

"A parking space, perhaps?" Sherlock suggests as he walks up looking disheveled and out of breath.

"Really?" Sio says.

Sherlock shrugs, "Amateur job; goal to knock you unconscious, not kill you; the woman with the bat was at the meeting at NHM. You said he was a womanizing misogynist. It all fits."

"I'm bloody Nancy Kerrigan," Sio observes in amazement. "I have a nemesis after all. How fun."

Sherlock helps her to her feet. She smiles at him sideways before saying, "So _this_ is what you do? I mean, tonight probably doesn't even qualify as unusual."

"Not really," John shrugs.

"What did you think?" Sherlock asks in response.

She looks at him with a light shrug, "I can't really say – I don't really think of you when you're not with me."


	10. Chapter 9: Of Secrets & Sociopaths

**Chapter 9: Of Secrets and Sociopaths**

John Watson stands in front of a hospital vending machine, debating what form of junk food will sustain him until the end of his clinic shift. Today has been a particularly slow day, dragging on for a seeming eternity. He checks his phone obsessively, hoping for either a funny text from Mary or an immediate rescue from Sherlock in the form of an urgent "police matter". Anything to keep him awake, the fatigue from regular late-night feedings increasing with every passing minute.

After getting his Twix bar, he turns back toward the clinic entrance, but is immediately bumped by a woman walking brusquely toward the exit, the chocolate bar cruelly dislodged from his hands. He mumbles an angry "Hey", as he bends over to pick up his treat. There is something familiar about the form of the woman walking away from him and he finds himself watching her turn and exit into the designated smoking vestibule just outside the custodial entrance. Glancing around, he makes the decision to follow her. When he reaches the door, he pushes it just enough to allow him a clear view without committing himself to an entrance. He sees the woman near the far wall, shakily lighting a cigarette. It is Sio. He is about to quickly close the door and walk away when he sees her turn to face the wall, her shoulders starting to quake. His first instinct is to assume she is laughing and he feels himself grow quickly annoyed. But just before he turns to leave, she moves her head to the side, revealing streams of tears running down her cheek. Soon she is sobbing, rocking her head gently against the wall. It is such a shocking sight, that he second-guesses himself – could she have a sister? He recovers from his paralysis and walks out into the small courtyard.

"Are you alright?" He hears himself say.

She turns around slowly, leaning back against the brick wall. She sinks down until she is sitting with her knees tucked in close to her chest, continuing to sob as she tries and fails to take a drag from the cigarette in her hand. John can't help but fixate on the lit end of it, which dances precariously close to her wavy mop of hair with every shudder. After a minute, she looks over at him and seems about to speak, only to instead wave her hand at him dismissively.

He looks at her with a fresh sympathy, thinking perhaps it best to leave her to it. He takes a step back towards the door,

"I'll be in the clinic if you need…anything," he offers.

As he reaches for the handle, she says, "Please."

He waits a moment for her to continue, not entirely sure if he had heard correctly.

"Pardon?"

She takes a successful drag from the cigarette and beckons him over with a wave, obviously trying to regain some control. When he gets near, she says in a quivering voice,

"Please don't tell him."

"I don't really know…?" he responds, confused.

"It's my grandmother. She's dying. I mean, I know that this _happens_…I just…She's alive, but she's _gone_."

It is only then that he notices a piece of paper in her hands. It is a picture, obviously drawn by a child. In it, he can make out the Earth and a spaceship on the moon with a crudely drawn figure waving. Next to the waving figure is another figure, sitting and smiling.

Sio quickly rolls up the paper, pulls a band from her wrist and secures it. The tears are flowing more slowly now, her breathing more steady. She takes a few more labored drags.

John looks at his watch, nervously. "I need to get back. Do you want me to call anyone?"

"Just don't tell Sherlock, alright? We've got a good thing going. He'll perceive me differently if he knows that I'm the way I am by choice."

"So your concern is that your boyfriend is going to find out your _not_ a sociopath," he says unable to hide his mildly sarcastic skepticism.

"_Exactly_. I should give you more credit, John. You're certainly _less_ dim than most," she says with earnest.

He grimaces slightly before responding, "Your secret's safe with me."


	11. Chapter 10: Dragon Island

**Chapter 10: Dragon Island**

John walks into the flat to find Sherlock sitting with a cup of tea, freshly prepared by Mrs. Hudson.

"We need to go over the Bulgar case before we meet with Lena Smith this afternoon," John explains.

"Fine, lets get to it," Sherlock responds with an unfamiliar energy.

John, glances over to his old chair, finding Sio laying casually across it, legs draped over the arm, a book in hand.

"Oh, hello Sio. Didn't know you'd be here. Should I come back later?" He asks Sherlock.

Sio does not respond. John notices that the book in her hand is upside down. Sherlock follows his gaze and takes a step over to her, flips the book and puts it back into her hand. He then snaps his fingers abruptly in her face, causing her to blink.

"Don't mind her. She won't interfere," Sherlock assures him.

John lays out the file and they begin to discuss it. He can't help but notice that about every 15 seconds, Sherlock snaps his fingers.

"Why are you doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Snapping your fingers. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"I never know what catches your eye, John. You so rarely notice anything important."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Why are you snapping?"

"To make her blink."

"Oh, right. That makes perfect sense," John responds with sarcasm. "Why do you need to make her blink?"

"Do we really have to get into this?"

"It's very distracting."

"She is running a simulation and if I don't make her blink, her eyes will dry out."

"Your girlfriend is so _weird_."

"She's not my girlfriend."

"Why can't she blink?"

"She's diverting all her energy to the simulation. Please try to keep up."

"Why don't you just close her eyes?"

"Because she thought you'd deal better with her presence if you thought she was reading quietly. Even _she_ can't read with her eyes closed."

"Well, the jig is up and I am about as weirded out as I can be, so just close her eyes."

"Fine."

He reaches over and gently smooths her eyelids shut with his hand.

The two of them work for a bit, going over the papers and discussing the case. After about 30 minutes, they are reminded of Sio's presence by the sound of the book dropping to the floor.

Looking over at her, John stands up quickly.

"Her lips are blue. Is she breathing?" He walks briskly over to her. "She isn't breathing!"

"Damn, she warned me this could happen. I'm supposed to hit her."

"Really?"

Sherlock gently slaps her cheek a few times, to no effect.

"I would not call that _hitting_."

"Then you do it."

"I'm not going to hit your girlfriend!"

Sherlock slaps her hard across the face. Then again. After a second, she gasps. Her eyes open slowly, then shut again, then open as if in slow motion. She takes another labored breath.

"What should we do? Call an ambulance?" John asks in alarm.

"No. She hates hospitals. Just wait; she'll be alright," Sherlock responds unconvincingly. "Give her a minute."

Her eyes open and close creepily again. She struggles to get up – John helps her to her feet while Sherlock studies her face. Something still isn't right. He frowns and slinks off quickly to the bedroom, looking for something.

While he is gone, Sio turns her head toward the kitchen. She tries to takes a slow, labored step toward the table. There is a cup and an empty water jug, as well as a plate of cheese.

"Can I get you some water?" John asks, hoping for a verbal response.

John thinks he sees a nod, so heads to the kitchen to refill the jug. He returns with the jug at the same moment that Sherlock comes out of the bedroom awkwardly carrying a bag of hair clips. They emerge to find Sio standing with a pair of scissors in her hand. She is mumbling something to herself over and over again, still moving as if she is in a trance. In a split second, she draws a deep breath in, lifts the scissors up into the air and says in a belabored whisper,

"You shall not pass."

And with that, she plunges the scissors into her own thigh. Horrified, the men rush over.

Seeing her hand still gripping the handle, John cautions, "Don't pull it out."

She looks over at him and yanks the weapon out of her leg, and plunges it again before falling to the ground. Blood spurts everywhere, but now she is breathing more regularly and her movements seem less labored.

"Don't just stand there, get a towel and call a bloody ambulance," John orders.

Sherlock does this and tosses John the towel, which he wraps around her leg.

Sio starts talking in a quiet, trembling voice, "If I avoided the femoral artery, then the blood is coming from the minor tributaries with a diameter of less than 1mm and blood pressure staying roughly constant at _xxxx_, then to stop the flow, you need to apply _xxx_. If the femoral artery is cut, then…if I'm standing at an angle of…."

As she is speaking, Sherlock steps forward and slaps her again.

"Stop it – it's trying to take control again. No calculations. John knows what to do."

She nods, but her lips continue to move.

"You need to lay down until the ambulance gets here. We need to stop you from going in to shock."

"No, I think I need to go into shock. I have to go into shock….maybe."

"No, shock is most definitely a bad thing. I take it back. Your girlfriend isn't weird, she's insane."

"Tell him," Sio pleads, looking at Sherlock.

"You tell him. John, you want to know what this is all about, don't you?" Sherlock leads.

John, getting it, "Yes, tell me all about it. What were you saying when…?"

She's shaking now, breathing heavily. She nods, understanding the need for distraction.

"It will sound rather silly. But I suppose a bit of embarrassment won't hurt. I was seven when it started. I could sense its power. The part of my mind that made me so clever was trying to take over the rest. I could feel the tendrils of it, sneaking in, pulling me away. I told my grandmother – she was the only one who understood."

She pauses a minute, obviously in pain, clenching her whole body, tears forming at the edges of her eyes.

"She told me to fight – to imagine the enemy within and to banish it. Perhaps the only way I was typical at that age was in my fascination with adventure stories, dragons in particular. So internally, I pictured myself a hero – modeled on whatever I was reading at the moment. Tolkein, Le Guin, it changed from day to day. I constructed a mental island and that is where I banished it. Months, it took to hack away, separate and send it across. I had to leave a bridge, because I didn't want to lose the capacity entirely. I just wanted control. So I moved it to the island and took control of the energy it needed to run. Still, back then I needed a form, a face to fight against. So it was an island, inhabited by a dragon and I was there to guard the bridge. And the dragon slept when I pulled the energy away, but when I let it run hot – when I needed something from it, the dragon would awake and start to fly around the island, threatening the bridge. Today it was coming – I gave it too much. So I was seven again."

"Wow," John says with a _she's crazy_ look.

Seeing John's expression, Sio responds defensively, "What? Sherlock's got a mind palace. I've got a mind island. With a dragon."

"I still don't think I understand the stabbing part," John responds, perplexed.

The shivering is slowing and she now appears sleepy. They can hear the ambulance outside.

"I needed to draw energy away. Wounds need the attention of the other side of the bridge. Power, energy is automatically diverted away. Even the dragon can't interfere. The stronger the need, the more power it loses. I had given up too much control. Rushed the simulation. Now I need to balance. No anesthesia. Promise? Have to stay conscious…."

"Tell me more about your grandmother…" John offers, trying to keep her awake.


	12. Chapter 11: Drugs & Doodles

**Chapter 11: Drugs & Doodles**

In the hospital, Sio is sitting up in bed, her leg wrapped up tight in bandages. She is scribbling something on a pad of paper. When the door opens, she quickly flips the pad over, revealing a fanciful doodle.

"Oh, it's only you," she sighs in relief seeing Sherlock walk through the door. She flips the pad back over and makes a couple of notes before looking back up.

"They took my laptop away. I'm meant to be drawing pictures," she complains.

"Should you be working?" He asks, mildly concerned.

"It's fine." She rattles a bottle of pills sitting on the table by her bed as an explanation. She opens, it, takes out a tablet and tosses him one. "They're really good and don't make you itch like the morphine."

He hesitates a moment, "Don't you need them?"

"A little pain is good. I'm sure they'll send me home with a big bottle."

He nods and swallows the pill. "I'd watch the head nurse. She's taking anti-malarials and putting considerable effort into hiding her sweat. Her wife is cheating on her with one of the doctors, so sort of a time-bomb, really."

"Noted." After a pause, she adds "Tell John you were right. You needn't have come."

"He was very insistent and then Mary joined the chorus and it was all I could do to shut them up."

"They'll release me tomorrow into the care of my father, who will dutifully drop me off at my flat and be on his way. I would have left today, but they put me on bloody suicide watch."

"You did stab yourself. Twice."

"Do they know that? I can't remember what was said when I was admitted. I wonder if we could control the narrative on this one. Could I have _been stabbed_, perhaps? I mean, I was in your company and you do tend to make a lot of people angry."

"The angle and force of the wounds, the weapon – it would be a tough sell to be anything other than self inflicted."

"But the police are idiots, aren't they? You're always saying so. And you are here – I could be consulting with you about the crime for all they know. Maybe a drug deal gone wrong?"

"You think drugs would go over better than self-harm?"

"Most definitely. People practically expect geniuses to be drug addicts – they love the narrative of us 'throwing it all away' to get high. Otherwise, it wreaks of insecurity."

"I'll see what I can do," he relents, blandly. "Do you need anything else?" Off her look, "John insisted that I ask," he sighs.

"The book I wasn't reading when it happened. Perhaps you could have Mrs. Hudson pop it in the post," she responds.

He waits a beat, noting her hesitation. "What is it? You obviously have something else you want to say."

"I suppose I should thank you for saving my life. Though I did do the hard bits myself. And you were _supposed_ to be paying attention and making me blink. Still, if you hadn't hit me…"

"You did bleed all over my floor."

"Didn't I already offer to pay for that?"

"And it was rather inconvenient timing, in more ways than one."

"The case?"

"The case, and…."

She takes a breath and catching his gaze, says simply, "Thank you."

"Shall we move on?"

"Excuse me?"

"That wasn't what you wanted to say. You're stalling. Which is unusual for you. I would blame the medication, but it should be wearing off about now as you skipped the last dose. And then there's the doodling."

She grips the pad, defensively flipping it over, "I told you, the bloody staff psychologist forced me to draw…"

"Not _that_ side. That's obviously a farce. The front – that's not _work_. The pencil marks are weak and you've over-spaced the characters. _That_ is doodling."

Knowing he will figure it all out in a moment, she intervenes.

"When did this happen?" She glances down at her leg. "What day?"

It takes a moment for him to respond, as he is busy deconstructing their interaction.

"Thursday."

"You said it before – 'the case, _and_..', my injury not only interrupted your case, but also our plans for later that evening. But we meet up on Wednesdays and Saturdays."

"You want to stop," he quickly blurts out before she has finished speaking.

"It seems the sensible choice."

"Of course until you have had a chance to heal – I can't imagine you being very limber with a gaping hole in your leg," he responds with an unusual light-heartedness.

"Two holes, actually. But…" She feels a pang of _something_, at his temporary obtuseness.

He experiences a quick flush of embarrassment. At least, he imagines that is what it is. "You want to stop for good. Right."

"I don't really see there is much more I can teach you anyway. You are perfectly capable of going on to impress the lady of your choice," she responds, doing her best to keep her intonation as neutral as possible.

"What should I do about your things?"

"I'll send Harry around with anything you left at mine and he can pick up any bits and bobs. Other than the book, as I mentioned, which is a bit more urgent."

"Fine. I'll be going then," he responds in kind, having recovered quickly.

"Goodbye," she says in a voice that is uncharacteristically cheerful.

After watching him leave, she resumes her doodling.

_**Author's Note: This is the place in the timeline where the first chapter takes place. Go back to Chapter 1 if you would like a refresher.**_


	13. Chapter 12: Session 2

**Chapter 12: Session 2**

_**Author's note: In terms of timing, this is the second time Sio and Sherlock meet up for sex, so it would have occurred time-wise between Chapter 4 and Chapter 5. Be advised that what follows has strong sexual content. I have edited out the explicit parts. If you are over 18 and would like to read the rest, go to Adult Fanfiction . org.**_

When Sio arrives at the door of Sherlock's flat, he is in the middle of something. This was not his intension as he had been looking forward to their meeting ever since he had gotten her text earlier this afternoon. However, he had started something just after tea and found himself still engrossed. He is hunched over his laptop, staring intently into the screen when he hears an odd noise. It takes him a moment for the ringing sound to reach his brain and wen it does, it takes him another few seconds to connect where the noise is coming from and what it signifies. Finally, he looks down at his phone, which he had placed next to the computer on his desk. There is a text in view.

_SS: I'm outside._

Sherlock abruptly stands up and walks to the door. Opening it, he still looks a bit distracted.

He mutters, "Sorry. Did you ring the bell?"

Sio nods, "When you didn't answer, I decided to try the phone."

"Did you worry I was out?" Sherlock blurts as he steps out of the way for her to enter.

"I thought you were probably in the middle of something. Happens to me all the time."

Holding his iPhone up to illustrate, "I put it on its loudest setting. Still sometimes takes a moment."

Recognizing his settings, "Yes. And the old style phone ring. It seems to be the only one to penetrate."

"A neural throwback, I suppose," he says, closing the door behind her.

"What were you doing?"

He walks back over to the laptop. Frowning at the screen he says, "Someone has written an article on new tobacco additives and the effects they have on the lattice structure of the ash. Depending, of course, on the medium – cigarette, cigar, pipe, etc. It's just… I didn't know anyone else was doing that sort of work."

"Are you sure it wasn't you?"

"Pardon?"

"Are you sure _you_ didn't write the article? I had that happen once. I had written an essay on one of those online forums under some screen name, completely forget and found myself arguing with it in the comments section a few weeks later. Had no memory of it at all. Of course I thought the author was very clever, but completely _wrong_."

He is barely listening to her, but manages a small smile as he says "Warring selves. No, I'm quire sure it wasn't me; this one mentions marijuana and that's not something I've thought much about. Curious."

"Should we postpone? I fear at this point I cannot accurately gauge my ability to compete with tobacco ash for your attention," Sio says with a wry smile.

He puts his hand on the edge of the screen and pauses just for a moment before closing it, "No. It's fine," he says rather unconvincingly.

He watches as she takes her coat off and hangs it on the peg he had hung it on last time. She glances over at him while she sets her bag down on the couch.

She tilts her head to the side and squinting slightly says, "Have you done anything different?"

He can tell by her appraisal that she is referring to his physical appearance.

"Not that I am aware of," he responds, slightly uncomfortable at her continued stare.

"Hair cut?"

"No," he says sounding slightly concerned.

"New shirt?"

He shakes his head.

"You look nice," she shrugs discretely.

"Did I not before?" He asks, curious.

"Slight change in perception. It's good," Sio responds.

She marvels at her how her brain is converting her perception of Sherlock. Although it is true that she found herself attracted to him during their initial meeting, she would not have described him as handsome at the time. With his mop of curly black hair, cold, narrow eyes and unnaturally high cheekbones mounted on an elongated face, he would never have turned her head had she seen him on the street. It was usually more rugged men that caught her eye. But tonight, his features seem less angular, his eyes softer, his hair charmingly unkempt.

"You are dressed differently than last time," he observes. She is wearing a fitted skirt with stockings; a feminine blouse with buttons, a jacket and high-healed shoes with ankle straps.

She nods, noncommittally as if expecting him to continue.

"If you worked in an office, I'd guess that you came straight from work, but you wouldn't wear those clothes to your lab. There aren't enough scuff marks on your shoes for them to have been worn outside more than a few hundred feet and your jacket still has a piece of the dry clearer tag stuck to the back lining…"

She holds her hand up. "If you had to use one word to encapsulate the difference, what would it be?"

"Complicated," he responds.

"Yes. Why?" She asks.

After a brief silence, he admits, "I don't know."

She smiles seductively and turns to walk toward the thermostat.

"I set it to come up at 9," he calls after her.

She walks back toward him. "Shall we start here, or would you prefer the bedroom?"

Although Sherlock is keenly aware of the purpose of her visit, he finds himself slightly startled when she speaks so plainly and he hesitates before responding, the alternate scenarios rolling around in his mind.

Seeing his conflict, she softens the tone of her voice and offers, "Why don't I explain the clothes and we can go from there."

He nods, feeling oddly relieved.

She speaks in a way that is direct, but smooth and sultry. "My clothes are complicated so that they will be more difficult to remove. Some men find it erotic to watch the undressing process. Others like to participate. Still others have no interest at all." She takes a step closer to him before continuing, "Which would you prefer?"

He blinks a few times, thinning his lips. "Do you have a preference?" he asks, his voice a shade deeper.

"Of course. But this week…and probably next…is about _you_," she responds.

Without saying anything, he unhurriedly closes the distance between them, looking her directly in the eyes. Stopping in front of her, his gaze lowers to investigate the details of her clothing. He wonders how many layers there will be before he gets to her skin. First, he lifts his right hand to follow the line if her blazer from her shoulder down to the first connection point, a small hook. He deftly flicks it apart with one hand and moves to the two buttons below. Both unfasten easily and he then uses both hands to lift the jacket off her shoulders, pulls down to release her arms and lays it across the back of the neighboring chair. He glances at her blouse, noting the standard slit buttons at the cuffs of both sleeves and the long line of loop buttons down the front. He decides to loose the wrists first, quickly unfastening the three on the left, then the right. The top four of the central hooks are already unfastened and he runs his fingers slowly down the opening to the first juncture, letting his hand rest for just a moment on the modest bulge of her cleavage, glancing up at her as if to ask permission to touch. She nods almost imperceptibly, after which he continues his work. Again, he is able to undo the loops smoothly and easily with one hand; she is startled by the fluid dexterity of his movements. Soon her blouse is open and he is surveying the next layer as he tugs the shirt gently from her arms. Noting that the next layer – he thinks there is likely only two more – extends down into her skirt, he reaches his hand around back toward the pull of the fabric to find the clasp. He deftly unhooks the eyelet and pulls the zip down. He leans in closer to her body while gathering a grip on fabric running along her hips before he kneels down to pull the skirt to her ankles and allowing her to step out of it. While down low, he briefly caresses her lower calf as he moves his hand down to the tiny buckle on the strap around her ankle. As easily as everything else, he releases the buckle of each shoe and slips them off her feet in turn. As he moves to stand up, he slips his hands under the base of her lavender silk slip at her mid-thigh and lifts it up and over her head in one motion. He takes a moment to see what is left, unsure if the excitement he feels is the longing to touch her bare skin or simply the challenge of unwrapping the next layer. She is now wearing a black bra, corset, garter belt combination that takes him a moment to figure out. The fitted section around her waist is fastened with satin string at the back. Once untied, he is able to pull the ribbon out, thus releasing the sides to be opened and pulled off. He moves more quickly now, excited to be so close to the end. He lets his hands trace the length of the garter straps down her leg to the top of the first stocking. Feeling the clasp with his fingers for just a moment, he quickly figures out the mechanism and releases it with a snap. He kneels down again to pull of each stocking, then stand ups quickly to pull off the lace belt. She is completely amazed by his dexterity and speed; despite the ease with which he was able to work through each layer, there was something about his expression that confirmed to her that he had not done this before. A quick thrill shoots through her body as she imagines other uses for his tactile agility.

Sherlock hesitates a moment, deciding which should come off next – bra or panties? But before he can make a move she lifts his chin up and brings her mouth just millimeters away from his face, before saying,

"Very good. Lets stop there for now."

He leans forward just enough to catch her lips in a brief kiss.

"Did you like that?" she purrs.

"I found it very… _nearly_ satisfying," he responds honestly, leaning in for another kiss just as she pulls away.

She turns and walks slowly and seductively toward the bedroom. He watches her go; she has a very pleasing body, curvaceous and soft without being thick or bereft of definition. Not as technically perfect as Irene's, but in some ways more inviting.

When he enters the bedroom, she turns to face him.

"Now, what about you? Shall I undress you? Or would you prefer to do it yourself?"

Sherlock thinks for a moment, having a hard time switching focus to himself. Oddly, his instinct is to _not_ have her do it; perhaps she would fumble on the buttons and that would annoy him or perhaps he would flinch if her hands were cold or she touched him in the wrong spot, or any number of possible things that might interfere.

He mumbles, "Perhaps _this_ time, I'll…"

Understanding, she interrupts him, saying, "I'm going to change into something else. Wait for me on the bed."

He frowns, scanning her body covered only in lovely strips of black lace. "Why?"

"There are various options of fabrics. What was I wearing last time?"

"Silk."

"I thought we'd try proper lace. Besides, I have found that men often don't like to be _watched_."

He raises an eyebrow. "In that case, can I finish?" he asks rather excitedly, fixating on her remaining two items of clothing.

She hesitates a moment. This wasn't the plan. But of course, she should have realized he might become fixated on the task.

She nods and says softly, "Go on, then."

He does a sweet little skip towards her with a pleased muted grin. He had just made the decision to do bottom up when she had stopped him before. He slips his hands down the sides of her hips under the lace and pushes the knickers down her legs until they drop. There is a brief internal battle as part of him has a strong urge to take a moment look at her exposed body, while the other desperately wants to finish the job and remove the last of her clothes. The OCD part wins and he quickly reaches his hand behind her back and snaps apart the clasp of her bra, bringing his hands forward to pull the lace garment away from her body, instantly freeing her breasts. But before he can reach out to touch them, she steps away to go and change.

When she returns, he is reclining on the bed, much like the last time. It isn't clear if he is entirely naked or not, as once again, he has the duvet covering his body up the waist. To her, his body looks somehow less elongated than before – his pectorals more defined, the contrast of the pale skin and black hair accentuating the lines of his body.

She is wearing an off-white lace negligee, asymmetrically falling to below her knee on one side, the other with a slit reaching up nearly to her hip. Her nipples are clearly visible and she is obviously wearing nothing else as the line of her beautifully trimmed soft triangular muff is discernable through the lace.

"Some men like lace because it is so transparent. Others prefer silk because of the softness and mystique. And, of course, others prefer a less sophisticated look – sort of a prostitute chic, closer to what I was wearing before."

"What about nothing. Is that ever a preference?"

"Of course. But even then I like to start with something that needs to be removed." She walks toward the bed, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress and says, "No decisions need to be made tonight."

"Can I feel?" He asks. She nods and he reaches his left hand forward to touch the fabric, gently moving his fingertips down the side of her waist and then her thigh, moving them across to touch the exposed skin of her opposite leg.

She closes her eyes a moment when his hand glides across her mid thigh. "You can't really compare it to skin."

He lets his hand flatten to embrace the curve of her leg before moving it just up under the lace so that he can feel skin on one side and lace on the other.

"Having the lace on top distracts the hand slightly, doesn't it?" He comments, analyzing the sensation.

"And when might distraction be desirable?" she asks.

He has to think about this one. He looks up at her and suggests, "Delay?"

"Yes. One of the most universal truths about getting the most pleasure out of sex is the longer the build-up, the more intense the release. All contact is fun and I'm the first to admit that a well-timed quickie can be intensely satisfying, but physically, desire is cumulative and proportional to the intensity of the experience. So mechanisms of delay are worth exploring."

"We did _not_ practice that the last time, as I recall."

"No. Everything in time. Tonight, I want to focus on touch." With that, she takes her hand and runs it along the hair of his forearm, still resting on her thigh.

"You flinched," she quietly observes.

"Your hand is cold," he responds.

"No it isn't."

To make her point, she moves her hand from resting on his arm to his chest, at which he briefly tenses again. She gently moves her hand around his upper body, keeping continuous contact, sometimes turning her hand over.

With her voice soft and slow, she explains, "As humans, we have evolved to benefit from skin to skin contact. It has long been known that babies and children need regular contact to develop normally. Physical touch has likely been an integral part of our social structure for a very long time and we continue to need it, or at least benefit from it as adults. But people like you, people like me – very clever people, are born with extra sensitivities. Not _always_ touch – can be taste or sound – but often so. This extra stimulation can flood our minds, distract us and make life difficult. So as children, we learn to cope with it in a variety of ways. We do our best to reduce our perception, but that can have other mental consequences. So we attempt to control it by limiting what touches us or reserving physical touch for specific occasions when we can modulate it, prepare for it, control our reaction to it. This often leads to a lack of regular physical contact and thus a tension – however brief – to the initiation of touch. What I have learned over the years is this tension can be reduced through repeated exposure; but more importantly, the sensitivity can be exploited."

"You'll show me?" He asks with a hint of longing, confirming her suspicions.

"It takes some time. You have to release it slowly; slowly enough to be able to control it. But the result is truly blissful," she whispers, inadvertently licking her lips before looking up into his eyes.

He thinks he feels her hand get warmer suddenly, as she continues to massage the skin of his torso. He leans forward, slipping his free hand behind her neck and drawing her in for a kiss. It doesn't take long before they are both breathing heavily, his hand gripping the skin of her thigh tighter as they greedily explore each other's lips. She pulls away.

Already disoriented, he complains, "Everything seems to be about delay and that's not what I want."

"Trust me," she implores, sitting back again. "Not all touch should be sexual if this is going to work." Though, in truth, her body is already aging.

"I think it may be too late for that," he says, thinking that every touch of her skin now makes him want to throw her on her back and dive between her legs.

She takes a breath and resumes exploring the skin of his body with her hands. She works down each arm, sensually tracing the muscles of his biceps, triceps, then his lower arm, hands and fingers. She moves her hands across the skin of his face, his ears, his scalp. Periodically, she lifts her hands off for a moment, then places them back down, judging his physical reaction. She traces the outline of his waist, careful to increase the pressure to avoid the tickle reflex; she moves her hand across the muscles of his stomach. Then, reaching down under the covers, she touches the smooth skin of his hips.

_Sorry, edited for adult content._

After a few more moments, their bodies begin to settle. As before, she is the first to emerge from the haze and she sits up, scanning the bedside for her negligee. Finding it she, grabs it off the floor and slides off the bed. He weakly reaches his hand out as if to stop her from going.

"I think this is going rather well," Sio says with a pleased smile. "You have better instincts that I expected. This is going to be fun."

"Going to be?" Sherlock asks with a hoarse voice.

"Oh, it gets better," she says with a wink.


	14. Chapter 13: Finding Sio

_**Author's Note: Ok, so the order of the next two chapters is rather unimportant and I have switched it around a few times already. Trying not to fixate on it. Will upload both in quick succession anyway. Both meant to be a bit funny **_

_**Another quick reminder that to avoid confusion, you might want to go back and read Chapter 1. The chronological order of events is: Chapter 11 (Drugs & Doodles) then Chapter 1 (This is not the beginning) and then Chapter 13 (Finding Sio) or Chapter 14 (Introvert Bliss).**_

**Chapter 13: Finding Sio**

In Sherlock's flat, John is sitting on the couch with a laptop while Sherlock is building what looks like a massively intricate 3-D puzzle on the kitchen table.

"Anything yet?" Sherlock asks.

"It has literally been 5 minutes," John responds before continuing to nibble on his thumbnail. "Besides, you'd hear the beep if I had gotten a message."

"I can't be expected to pay attention to such things," Sherlock whines. "_Figuratively_, it has been en eternity. Answer the question."

Rolling his eyes in defeat, John replies, "No. Nothing yet."

"I need a bloody case. This is insanity," he begins to pace the kitchen.

"Tell me about it. Mary is going to insist I come back in a minute if we don't have anything to do," John complains, his leg twitching.

"No she will _not_. It's your guilt that will send you running," Sherlock answers.

"Either way, I can't sit around here all afternoon," John responds.

"How long have you been here?" Sherlock says.

"You'd just started your puzzle thing," John answers.

The doorbell rings.

John throws his head back, "Oh thank God."

Sherlock walks quickly to the door, his eyes widening. But after a moment, he frowns just before swinging it open.

"It's only you," he sneers, turning his head to inform John, "It's only Harry."

"Henry!" Henry insists under his breath.

"Whatever," Sherlock walks dejectedly back to his puzzle. "Has she sent you to pick something up? You can forage."

Henry steps into the room and nods to John.

"Hello again, Henry. Sorry for…_him_. A bit restless, I'm afraid."

"So she's not here?" Henry says as more of a statement than a question. "I haven't heard from her in nearly a week. She doesn't answer her phone. She missed lab meeting. Everyone is freaking out."

"And by everyone, you mean…," John leads.

"Er,…the lab. Even the Department Chair asked about her and he _never_ does that. Admittedly, the first couple of days were sort of a party when she didn't come in. But now I'm really starting to worry," Henry explains showing real concern.

"When was the last time you heard from her?" John asks.

"I got a text last Monday asking me to drop off a few papers and files – work stuff. I assumed she was sick. She didn't answer the door when I stopped by, so I just slid them under and left. I went away for a mini-break and when I came back, all my texts just bounce."

John turns to Sherlock, "Are you listening to any of this? Could be a case."

"Don't be daft, John. She never remembers to charge her phone when Harry isn't around," Sherlock dismisses.

"When did _you_ last see her?" John asks.

"I have no idea," Sherlock answers, still reeling from the disappointment of Henry's arrival.

"Surely it hasn't been a week. You two _usually_…" John says to Sherlock.

"Yes, usually, but sometimes I get involved in a case or she gets involved in something and we don't ask questions. Weeks occasionally go by. Don't project your style of relationship onto us," Sherlock admonishes with a bit too much force.

"And don't call him Shirley!" Henry jokes.

"So t_hat's_ why you've been a right misery lately. Explains a lot," John says rather gleefully.

"It explains nothing, John. I need a _case_."

"But this sounds like it may be a case."

"Fine, you take it, then."

"I don't know what your problem is, but fine."

"Good. Easy peasy. I am confident you can handle it."

John says to Sherlock, "Check your phone to see when your last communication was."

He sighs loudly. But after a quick sideways glance, he fishes his phone out of his coat pocket and starts fiddling with it.

"There's a text from Tuesday afternoon," he says.

"What was it about?" John asks.

"She wanted to know how to get in touch with Wiggy."

"Who is…?" John leads.

"Someone who…gets things for me on occasion," Sherlock replies.

John closes his eyes in frustration and disbelief. When he speaks, his voice is tinged with anger, "So in your last communication with Sio, she asked how to contact your drug dealer and you saw no cause for concern?"

"I didn't know it would be our last communication then, did I? In any case, he is as trustworthy as that sort can be and I advised her to mention my name, thereby ensuring she'd be treated fairly," he responds, aware of John's apparent disapproval.

"What did she sound like?" John asks.

"You really are pathetic at this. It was a _text_," Sherlock snips.

"I realize it was a text, I was simply asking if there was anything in it that might have revealed her state of mind," John clarifies.

"I would doubt it possible to reveal her state of mind in a text," Sherlock muses.

"What exactly did you tell her?" John asks.

"I gave her his mobile. And perhaps a suggestion or two," Sherlock responds.

"Wait, so you're saying my boss went to see a drug dealer? To buy drugs. I seriously didn't think she had it in her to attempt something so…_practical_," Henry says.

John starts getting his coat on and says, "We should go to her flat. Do you have a key?"

Henry and Sherlock respond in synchrony.

"No." "Yes."

Henry and John look to Sherlock, surprised.

"You do?" They both say.

Irritated, Sherlock puts his hand up, "Don't."

"On the way, why don't you try to contact your man to see if she was successful in her expedition," John instructs Sherlock.

As they approach the door of her flat, Sherlock's phone beeps. He looks down at it and utters, "Uh oh."

"What? You heard back from Wiggy?" John asks.

"Indeed. This could be a problem."

"You look pale. That can't be good," Henry observes.

Sherlock looks up, "We need to find her."

"What is it?"

"I was a bit distracted when I responded to her text. I had meant to suggest she should avoid a particular concoction, but somehow I managed to recommend it. A simple typo."

"How bad is it?"

"It's name is 'Reset' and it will likely…well, it will make her think she's stupid. For a _while_."

Henry gasps, bringing his hand to his mouth. "Oh that's very, very bad."

Sherlock unlocks the door and they enter. A quick peruse and it is clear she is not there. Instead of doing his usual investigative walk around, Sherlock stands nearly still in the middle of the main room. John watches him for a moment before saying anything, waiting for him to leap into action. When he doesn't, John scratches his head and after a moment, his face lights up with an idea.

He accuses, "You are thinking about _sex_. Instead of looking for clues, you're thinking about whatever it is you get up to in here. You can't help yourself!"

Sherlock stiffens a bit "Don't ever presume to know what I am thinking, John. It's insulting."

"Then tell us where she is. Do your thing!"

"Just…give me a minute," Sherlock responds, a bit flustered. He has noticed this before; his lack of perception regarding Sio and her things. It is at times both disconcerting and comforting, depending on the details of the situation. "You've got eyes and a slightly above average intellect. Why don't you have a go?"

John walks over to the desk in the corner. It is strewn with papers. He picks up a few of them.

"Birth certificate, lease, letter of employment, old bank statement. She was looking for something. A document she doesn't use much," John suggests.

"There's a phone number," Henry offers, lifting up a piece of torn paper.

"Call it," John replies.

Henry dials, waits for an answer, then quickly hangs up.

"Solicitor's office," Henry reports.

Sherlock is still standing motionless in the middle of the room.

John walks down a hallway and returns a moment later.

"She definitely packed – badly. Clothes strewn about; a rejected case on the floor."

"I usually have to pack for her – or at least re-pack her bag whenever she goes anywhere. She's pretty useless with travel," Henry comments.

"Could there have been a conference you forgot about? You said you were away," John asks.

Sherlock sighs loudly and then says, "This is excruciating. It's like watching a Cricket match in slow motion. She is in York at her Grandmother's house, presumably settling the estate. Note the missing road map from the second shelf, the newspaper with all pages discarded save one, drivers license is missing from the pile of documents—old style as she doesn't own a car and rarely drives and if you look at the paper jammed in the printer, I imagine you will find the exact address. I'll leave you to it while I go back to the flat and wait for a real case to present itself."

"Leave what to us?" John asks.

"To go and get her. She'll be a mess with the drugs and so forth; I thought I'd explained," Sherlock replies.

"Don't you want to come and see if she is alright?" John leads.

"For the third time, I think it quite obvious that she is _not_ alright. That's why I agreed to go out despite it being nowhere near the minimum seven. But she will not want to see _me_ in the state she is in, that is for certain," Sherlock snips.

"Got it!" Henry says triumphantly as he pulls a crumpled sheet of paper from the bowels of the printer.

"I can't just get in a car and go to York. It's not like the old days. I'm sure Henry can manage," John says.

"That's rather cold, John. She may need medical attention. Wiggy gave her quite a grab bag. Besides, you have _already_ seen her cry," Sherlock responds.

John answers, indignantly, "_I'm_ the one who is cold. Sounds like it is _you_ who doesn't want to see _her_ in the state she is in. And even for you, that's…."

Sherlock interrupts, "Again, do not presume to know what I am thinking, John. On the contrary, the thought of her tangled, matted hair, puffy eyes, flushed tear-streaked cheeks, red snotty nose is inexplicably appealing to me mainly because any thought of her is appealing. When I think of her, I want to see her, _always_. But she doesn't think I _know_…"

John nods.

"Aw. I am totally going to pretend I didn't hear that," Henry chirps as he walks toward the door.

"_You_ should go. And soon," Sherlock insists.

Henry jiggles his car keys, "I am happy to drive!"

"Fine. I'll need to call Mary," John replies.

"You can drop me off on your way out," Sherlock says as he turns to leave.

Henry and John arrive at the cottage – a little farmhouse on an isolated plot of land a few miles from the nearest village. The door is open, so they walk sheepishly inside.

"Dr. Stanton?" Henry calls in quiet voice.

They hear a noise on the second floor. Before ascending the staircase, John glances at the kitchen table, which is strewn with a selection of books, recently unpacked from a large Amazon box. The titles include: Cooking for Dummies, Housework for Dummies, A Little Bit of Everything for Dummies. John tilts his head and murmurs, "a little extreme." Next to the books are a collection of groceries, a box labeled Mary Kay filled with make-up and nail polish and an envelope filled with pills.

They find Sio in one of the bedrooms upstairs. She is in a pink, fluffy dressing gown. Her hair looks like she has put her hand in an electric socket and her face is streaked with the remnants of bad make up. She is laying on the bed amongst what looks like an exploded tissue box.

"Oh, it's _you_," she moans as she looks over at them, blotting her eyes with a tissue. She dramatically grabs the pill bottle from the bedside table and pops two tablets in her mouth, spilling another three onto the bed.

John walks over to the bedside table and picks up the unlabeled bottle.

"What are you taking?" He asks, adopting a neutral tone.

"They're my 'no cry' pills – Percocet, I think. If I don't take them, I cry," she moans.

"How many have you taken today?" John asks, concerned.

She gestures toward the tissues on her bed. "Obviously, not enough." Her speech is sloppy, but hard to tell if that is from the crying or the drugs or perhaps the half empty bottle of scotch she is holding in her other hand.

Henry is still standing in the doorway, covering his eyes. "Should I, like, stay out here? I'm not sure I can un-see this."

"Poor Henry. You're going to have to look for another job. I can't be a scientist anymore because I'm stupid. I'm just like everyone else," she says this dramatically with a wave of her tissue filled hand.

John turns to Henry, "Why don't you go downstairs and look up the pill code for the tablets in the kitchen."

Henry jumps at the opportunity, turns around and heads straight back down the stairs.

"I don't see _anything_. It's all a bloody mystery. Look," she tosses a crumpled up piece of paper and misses the garbage by about six inches. It joins the twenty other little bits of paper surrounding the small basket. She continues to rant, "I'm going to have to learn to cook, to clean….to do l_aundry_. The Mary Kay lady that came to the house says I'll need to wear a lot more make-up to attract a husband around here. She says I'll need one of those unless I get a job. What sort of jobs do stupid people do?"

John sits down on the bed next to her, trying very hard not to laugh or smile. He awkwardly puts his hand on her shoulder.

"Now, now. It's not that bad being average," he offers, unable to help himself.

She starts to sob, wailing, "I'm going to have to have… _babies_."

John lets a laugh escape, tries to cover, but can't stop himself from giggling.

"How is this funny? I don't know how to do _anything_!" Sio moans again.

"Sio. You are not stupid," John says calmly.

"Sorry, did I offend? I guess now that I am one of you, I should use another term. Oh God, I'm going to have to learn to be _nice_," Sio responds.

"No. It's the drug you took. The combination pill that Wiggy gave you – the one called 'Reset'. It's some kind of long-acting hallucinogen. But Sherlock says it effectively silences the analytic part of your brain. In a bad way," John explains.

She blinks hard a few times, trying hard to comprehend what he just said.

"You mean, this is temporary?"

"Yes."

"I'm still a genius?"

"Yep."

"I don't have to find a new job?"

"Not unless you want to."

"I really don't want to learn to cook. I don't mind baking – sort of like chemistry. I like chemists."

"Your kitchen can remain unused indefinitely."

"Oh, thank God."

"You could still work on the 'nice' thing."

"So he left off the 'not'. _Whatever you do, do NOT let him give you Reset_."

"Indeed."

"Wow. It takes an excruciatingly long time to work things out with a normal brain. How can you stand it?"

"Henry! You can come up now," John shouts.

"I think I am going to need to detox. I feel sick."

"Henry – bring a bucket," John yells in a panic.

"Thank you, John. And thanks for not bringing Sherlock. I kind of want to hug you right now. You people do lots of hugging, I think"

"Please don't."


	15. Chapter 14: Introvert Bliss

**Chapter 14: Introvert Bliss**

John walks into Sherlock's flat just as Sio is slipping her coat on.

"Why do you always do that?" Sherlock says to Sio.

"What?"

"Tense up when John walks into the room."

She considers for a moment. Then reaching for her keys she says, "Because John has seen me cry."

Sherlock just glances over at John, who shrugs slightly. "Don't forget your sketch," he says nodding over to the table.

She walks over, rolls up a piece of paper and puts it in her handbag. "Saturday, then?" She says casually.

"John and I are seeing a film on Saturday. A comedy," Sherlock says with a slight smirk.

John frowns in confusion, but Sherlock silences him with a look.

"Friday is Quiz night with the lab down at the pub. Think we have a real shot at the trophy this year," she answers. "Tomorrow?"

"Midnight skating at Planet Ice. I was inspired by the Olympics coverage," Sherlock deadpans.

"Guess it'll have to be tonight then," Sio sighs.

"I'll come to yours around 9?" Sherlock asks.

"Anytime after 7 is fine," she says with a wink as she heads out the door.

After she has left, John turns to Sherlock and says, "Do you do that every time, or was it strictly for my benefit?"

"What?"

"That dance you do about meeting up – Mrs. Hudson says she's been here or you've been gone every night this week."

"Since when have I ever done anything for your benefit, John?"

"It is totally normal to want to see each other every night. You can just agree."

"What's the fun in that?"

"Whatever works, I suppose," John shrugs and walks over to the kitchen. "Do you have any coffee? I'm exhausted. Baby was up half the night with a cough. Think I may be coming down with it now." He feels is throat, frowning and proceeds to make himself a cup of instant coffee, frustrated by the lack of fresh milk.

Paying no attention to John's comments, Sherlock says almost gleefully "Sio was here for twelve hours yesterday and we spoke all of five words to each other."

John nearly spits a bit of coffee, "Not sure I'm ready for this level of sharing."

"Don't be vulgar, John. We weren't in _bed_," Sherlock grabs an apple and takes a bite before continuing, "We were just here, coexisting. Sort of like when you lived here."

"Except I _was_ often talking – you just weren't listening," John says.

Sherlock thinks about this a moment – could she have been talking? He shakes it off, responding with, "either way, it _felt_ blissfully quiet."

John takes another sip of coffee, wincing at its bitterness. "So what's the point, then? If you don't interact," John says, honestly confused.

"You're overthinking it," Sherlock responds.

"Just curious," John shrugs.

"Does there have to be a point other than I prefer it?" Sherlock snips, annoyed at being pushed into thinking about such things.

"Ah, so you prefer it," John retorts with a knowing smile.

"What? What's that look for?"

"You prefer being with Sio to being alone. That's a big step for you."

"I didn't say…"

"You did."

"Only because you forced me into it. Why do you people always need to talk about _everything_."

"You brought it up."

Sherlock is about to object, but realizes John is right. He flops down into his chair and finishes the apple rather aggressively in silence.

_**Author's note: I wasn't really sure where to put this next paragraph, so I am throwing it in here rather than have it as a stand-alone. I might try to work it into one of the upcoming "Session" chapters, but I'm not sure how that will go exactly…**_

For the ten to fifteen minutes after sex, they seem like a nearly normal couple; their shared neuroses subsumed by the post-orgasm euphoria. They maintain physical contact – sometimes even a stray kiss, a lingering cuddle. They smile, occasionally giggle and nearly always talk. In these moments, no one would recognize them; they would be strangers to themselves and certainly the subject of ridicule. There is both comfort and horror in the memories of these times, but mostly it works because it is shared. They emerge from this state slowly and consistently; they physically separate, perhaps engage in a cigarette cliché, followed by a mental withdrawal. It happens automatically and in near complete synchrony, neither offended, neither longing. There is beauty in this mutual advance and retreat into a world that terrifies them both.

Vulnerability is a game changer.


	16. Chapter 15: Piping Mad

**Chapter 15: Piping Mad**

John hesitates in the doorway of Sherlock's flat. He squints his eyes as if he is unsure of the scene in front of him. Sherlock sits somewhat reclined in the chair facing towards the far wall, away from the kitchen. Sio is standing behind, rather tenderly massaging his scalp as he utters intermittent sighs of pleasure. John takes a step back and is about to turn when Sherlock says without opening his eyes, "We're not _naked_, John."

John responds, "No, I just need to text…Mary is meeting me here and I forgot…" His voice trails off as he turns his back and starts fiddling with his phone.

He does text Mary:

_JW:_ _Just walked in on an actual display of affection. _

_MW: They weren't naked? _O_O

_JW: No. Might have been less strange. _

_MW: OK._

_JW: Btwn that and the nr hand holding incident the other day, am starting to doubt this is another farce._

_MW: Thought it was just hand proximity. Nosy boy._

_JW: Hate the thought of being fooled twice._

_MW: Ignore, then. What does it matter? Be there in a minute._

John puts away his phone and steps back into the apartment. The scalp massage continues. He waits for a biting comment from Sherlock, who always sees through such minor deceptions, but nothing comes.

Instead, Sherlock observes, "This may be one of the most intensely pleasurable physical experiences I have had." After a brief pause, he clarifies "Non-pharmaceutical."

"I may have to have a word with your hair dresser," Sio purrs as she takes a step back and then walks to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water.

Sherlock frowns and lifts his head up, "It's been a rather stressful morning."

"Why is that, then?" John asks.

"Don't pretend you don't know. Mrs. Hudson had no right to tattle," Sherlock answers.

"It was an antique! I thought it would be a preferable alternative," Sio chimes in.

"_You_ bought him the opium pipe?" John asks in disbelief.

Mary arrives at the door, "Looks like I got here just in time," she says smiling a bit wickedly.

Sherlock stands up and starts pacing the room. "Mycroft is threatening to cut me off," he complains.

"Wait, Mycroft gives you money?" John asks in disbelief.

"Of course, John. How else do you think I can afford the bloody rent? Whenever I need money, it just appears. No one else does that," Sherlock explains.

"How much?" Sio inquires.

"I don't bother which such trifles. Ask Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock shrugs, still upset. "She'll be up with tea in a minute after hearing the flood of footsteps."

Mary turns to John, "So why do _you_ always end up paying for the taxis? And dinner?"

"I have other needs," Sherlock dismisses.

"_Really_?" Mary counters, dubious.

"Tell her, John," Sherlock says.

"He has needs?" John shrugs.

Sio passes John a sheet of paper. "More or less? The rent."

John looks at it. "A bit more. And extra for housekeeping."

"It shouldn't be a problem. _I_ can cover it," Sio states with confidence.

"Perfect. See, she can cover it," Sherlock says as he flops back down into his chair.

Thinking about the details, Sio calculates out loud, "I'd have to unload the land in Yorkshire. And perhaps a few bits and pieces here and there."

"Always good to simplify," Sherlock suggests.

"Fine. I'll have Henry arrange it. Or at least find the people that are required for such things," Sio says, satisfied.

"What, just like that? You're going to give your money to Sherlock. To support his _need_s," Mary asks in disbelief.

Sensing she is missing something, Sio responds, frowning, "Why? Is that strange?"

"A little bit," Mary responds indignantly.

"John, can you please contain your wife?" Sherlock insists.

"I don't see the problem, if it would give him some independence from his brother's prying eyes," Sio responds.

John answers quickly, "I doubt very much that is even possible – Mycroft's eyes are always prying. Regardless, wouldn't that be just transferring Sherlock's dependence?"

Sio considers this for a moment. "Yes, but I'm lovely and I don't mind so much about the drugs. And if Sherlock doesn't have a problem with the arrangement…."

"Not at all," Sherlock responds without a thought.

"Putting aside the drugs for just a moment…", Mary says giving a distinct look to John before continuing, "And I'm just throwing this out there, but what if you two, say, decide to not…" Mary leads.

"Oh, you mean if we stop having sex. I see." Sio turns to Sherlock, "Would you feel pressure to continue having sex with me if I were giving you money?"

"Not in the least."

"I don't really think that's the point Mary was trying to make," John tries to clarify.

"But doesn't this happen all the time? These kinds of arrangements? I mean, Mary, you're not working. Isn't John, therefore, supporting you?"

"Yes, but only temporarily until the baby is a bit older. And we are _married_," Mary answers defensively.

Sio scoffs, "That seems a bit extreme. I have never had any interest in marriage."

John intervenes, "Mary is not suggesting you get married…"

Sio interrupts, continuing her train of thought, "Such an absurd institution, trying to impose permanency on transience. Still, if it were absolutely required for some practical purpose, I suppose the only person I would trust in such a situation would be Sherlock."

"How romantic," Sherlock deadpans.

"Isn't it, though?" Sio responds with cheeky smile.

"But back to the point Mary was attempting to make, lending money to friends is almost never a good idea," John insists.

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson arrives in the doorway with a tray of tea and biscuits. Sherlock hears a car door slam shut on the street and then scans the room suspiciously.

"Why are we all here?" Looking at John and Mary, he continues, "You must have gotten a babysitter. Tell me you didn't invite…"

"What's going on?" Sio asks earnestly.

"I believe they are attempting to stage an _Intervention_. Or as I will henceforth refer to this day as, Hell With Biscuits," Sherlock observes with an exasperated eye roll.


	17. Chapter 16: Out of Sight, Out of Mind

**Chapter 16: Out of sight, Out of Mind**

_Author's note: Feeling it may be too ambiguous, I decided to add a bit of exposition here on The Thinker Challenge. Probably unnecessary, but there you go._

The Thinker Challenge had been publicized over the last couple of months. A £2 million prize for the group to demonstrate a working "mind-reading" algorithm by a specified date. Mycroft had agreed to use government money in exchange for supervision over proposals and development as such technology would be useful in the world of espionage and the ongoing battle against terrorism. They had received a number of such submissions from the few groups working on this topic scattered around the world. The deadline is now passed.

John Watson walks into a basement and scans the scene before him.

"What happened to the international crack-team of neuro-engineers and their fancy-pants 'no expense spared' equipment?" John asks.

"Mycroft got rid of all the competition," Sio explains.

"So these are the winners?" He asks, referring to the two young people fiddling with equipment at the front of the room.

"Mycroft got rid of ALL the competitors – either bribed, threatened or whatever. It was all a ruse. He fronted the money to draw out the research teams. _The technology is threat to world security. It was imperative that the teams be dismantled_," she says with her best Mycroft impersonation.

"Bastard," John replies.

"It's cute when you make fun of my brother," Sherlock nods to Sio.

"So who are they?" John asks, referring to the people in the room he does not recognize.

Henry responds, "Some stoner grad students from California. They didn't submit their bid in time and so texted me at the last minute instead of going through the official Challenge site."

"Dude, we're not grad students anymore. We _graduated_," the female stoner whines from the front of the room.

"So why are we _here_?" John asks.

"We have to hide from Mycroft and his lackies," Henry responds.

"In your parents' basement?" He remarks to Sherlock.

"It's the one place he'd never come unexpectedly," Sherlock answers.

"But won't they notice that your brother is gone from the facility?" John asks.

"We found a replacement," Sio explains.

[cut to image of grad student pretending to be Daniel in front of the monitoring cam]

"We're ready to start calibrating the equipment, Dr. Stanton," says Stoner #2.

Sherlock whispers to John, as they connect the headset to Sio. "This is their second attempt. They started with Henry, as Sio felt her brain would overwhelm the system. It was working well enough – he thought of an apple, we saw an apple on the screen. He thought of a number, we saw it. Simple, but possible. When they hooked it up to Daniel, there was nothing. Then the machine shorted out. It has taken them an hour to get it up and running again."

"What does she expect to find?" John asks, genuinely curious.

"A mind like hers. The potential for a cluster," Sherlock suggests.

"Wonder Twin powers!" Henry adds, overhearing.

"Among other things…" Sherlock hints.

"We don't discuss the other things because it might make her cry and then we'd know she isn't a robot," Henry snarks.

Stoner #2 says to Sio, "Remember, start with simple thoughts."

Sio looks over at Sherlock with a questioning shrug. She quickly pulls her hair back in a tight set of pigtails. They all look at the screen while Stoner #1 starts up the software. Suddenly, there is a lot of movement and flickering lights on the screen in the front of the room, but nothing discernable.

"Try slowing it down," Stoner #1 suggests.

Something recognizable as a series of numbers flits across the screen, too quickly to interpret; then another flighty string of numbers. Sio shakes her head in frustration.

"Focus on creating an image. Concentrate on a physical form," Stoner #1 advises.

Sio takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. After a few minutes, an image begins to appear on the screen.

"What's that?" Henry squints as everyone is focused on the projection.

Stoner #1 suddenly jumps back with a squeal when what looks like a large eye opens in the center of the image. Although still fuzzy, you can make out the rough outline of a dragon's head. It comes in and out of clarity, as the head lifts up slightly, yellow fire coming out of its nostrils. It turns slightly and then winks its large eye before disappearing.

"Sorry, power cut," Stoner #2 explains.

Sio opens her eyes and glances over to Sherlock. When she catches his eye, she winks at him.

"What the hell was that?" Henry asks again.

"Her pet dragon," John sighs.

After a moment, Sherlock's father comes down the stairs with a flashlight. He says, "Power to the whole house is out. It may even be the whole street."

"Are you sure Mycroft doesn't know you're here?" John asks.


	18. Chapter 17: Drawing the Line

**Chapter 17: Drawing the line**

Sio and Mycroft sit across from each other at a park, playing chess. Her hair is tied up tightly in a bun. He is scanning the board.

"Best of five?" He suggests.

"I told you, I don't particularly like chess. Its like running on a treadmill."

"But that's when you were up against computers programs. The human element adds a bit of drama, don't you think?"

"Are you calling yourself human?" She shoots back.

They begin to play, quickly. Within a few minutes, Mycroft takes the first game.

"You're not concentrating," he observes with genuine disappointment.

"Or, perhaps I am unhappy with the games you've already played?"

They resume playing as they talk.

"As I've explained, it is imperative for global security to delay that technology as long as possible."

"I have read all of the submissions. What's to stop me from developing it myself?"

"Need you ask?" Mycroft asks. He looks down at the board, "Check mate. _Again_."

"I'm quite sure the NSA would jump on my pitch. I've always fancied working for NASA anyway," Sio counters.

Mycroft had been expecting this and had prepared accordingly. "As it happens, you are currently on the no-fly list. Your passport will be confiscated if you attempt to leave the country."

"Are you joking?" She asks, honestly incredulous.

"I am afraid not, my dear. A necessary evil," he says shaking his head.

"All this because I chose your brother?" she blurts, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. She scans the board. "Check mate. Two games to one."

"You can't possibly believe this has anything to do with my brother," Mycroft scoffs.

"What about the flowers?"

He knew that was a mistake – sending her an anonymous bouquet when she had been in the hospital. That was back when he thought she was a _normal_ woman. He dismisses this with a hand wave. "Despite appearances, I do believe my brother has feelings buried deep inside his sociopathic tendencies and I have to wonder if now that this business is done with, you could just back away?"

"I do not understand the problem," Sio insists.

"My brother and I have our differences for sure, but I do feel some responsibility for him. I'm afraid he is rather naïve when it comes to relationships and despite his considerable gifts, may not be able to adequately protect himself."

"Protect himself from what? From me?"

"Come now, you are using him."

Sio contemplates this for a long moment. In the meantime, she finishes the next game. Two to two. She pulls the clip out of her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders.

"I may have been advised that being in a relationship would improve my chances of being selected for the space program and perhaps also soften my image to the Nobel committee. And since Sherlock is the only person on this earth that I could conceive of having a relationship with, I chose to be with him. How is that not romantic?"

"I was referring to the prize money," he replies, shaking his head.

Sio laughs. "You think I started sleeping with him to get to you?"

"Of course."

"I think I could have gotten to you quite easily on my own," she responds, contemplating the board a bit more closely that before.

Mycroft shifts in his seat uncomfortably.

"Do you wish to call a draw?"

"What?" He frowns deeply at the board.

"Stalemate."


	19. Chapter 18: Introverted Prostitutes

**Chapter 18: Introverted Prostitutes & Other Games**

"Be careful with the needles."

"Yes, Mother."

"Just have someone there to make sure you keep breathing. Hire a prostitute – you can pay them for the night and as a bonus, you can have sex with them."

"But aren't they horribly dull?"

Sio reaches for he purse and pulls out a card. She hands it to him, "Ask for Elena. She's introverted and happy to _not_ make conversation."

He takes the card slowly, turning it around in his hand. The last time she had handed him a card, it had _her_ name on it.

"I don't want you to go," Sherlock says abruptly, not looking at her.

"Neither do I," She admits.

"How many did you take?" he asks, referring to her anti-anxiety meds.

"Two."

"That's more than usual. Why?"

"It's going to be a long day."

"Oh."

She shifts nervously, aware of the signs she is giving and frustrated that she can't stop herself.

She closes her eyes briefly and then says, "I _have_ to go."

"Do you?"

"Sherlock, I love…"

He cuts her off, saying sharply, "What possible point is there in saying that now?"

"Maybe there's never a point to saying it."

"Is it time to go yet?" He makes a show of looking at his watch.

"I have to do this for my brother."

"For yourself. Be honest. You just want to have your very own intellectual playmate."

"He's trapped. I can't leave him like that."

"Maybe he wants to be left. Maybe he's happy alone inside his mind, without all the bloody complications of real life. Consider that you may be selfishly pulling him out of heaven."

"I have to find out."

"You love him more than me," he says like a petulant child.

"That's how families work."

"Not mine."

"That's rubbish and you know it. You talk big about hating your brother, but you wouldn't leave him to whither and die. There are bigger things."

"So go then."

"Please don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Has it occurred to you that I may be making it easier?"

"People like us don't dream of a happily ever after. We had our time and now it's done. There's no point in being bitter about it."

"Who said I was bitter? I've helped you, haven't I? You wouldn't be able to get out of the country if it weren't for me. It'd better be worth the effort."

"Of course I owe you a great deal," she responds, humbled.

"I just hope you are smart enough to solve it," he says cruelly.

She winces at this. Then takes a breath before responding, "I'll get the science. I'm much more worried about everything else."

"The cover?" He asks.

She nods. "I've done it before once, did I tell you? Even faked a relationship just like you, only you did it for a case and I did it just to see if I could. It was _exhausting_. I found it rather chilling to have someone tell you they love you when you feel nothing for them at all."

She suddenly feels rather sick. It seems an eternity before he responds.

"I wouldn't know," he says finally.

"You'll be fine. The minute you get a good case, you'll forget all about me," she says, keeping her composure.

"_Any _case, really. Perhaps I _am_ bitter that I have to wait that long," he says with a sneer. But after a brief pause, he then asks, "Will you come back?"

"I don't see how that would be possible, considering," she answers.

"_Anything_ is possible," he counters.

_**The next day.**_

"I am not sure, brother, that your latest is a forgivable offense," Sherlock says with an anger less tempered by indifference than usual.

"What now?" Mycroft sighs.

"Sio's gone," Sherlock responds.

"What? That's impossible," he says with disbelief.

"Hardly. I helped, of course. You should really stop trying to control people."

"That's my _job_," Mycroft insists, obvious annoyance in his voice.

"You forced our hand."

"'_Our_ hand. Isn't that cozy?" Mycroft snarks as he reaches for his phone.

"By all means, let the games begin," Sherlock says, bitterly.

Mycroft gives some whispered orders over the phone and then looks back up at his brother.

"I suppose I underestimated her devotion to her brother. Perhaps she has a heart after all."

"Indeed," Sherlock says with just enough softness to pique his brother's imagination.

"You're not going to tell me you are in love with her or any such nonsense. Grow up, Sherlock. Now I am quite glad it worked out this way – people like you shouldn't trifle with sentimentality; it doesn't suit."

"She loved me, Mycroft."

"Don't be an idiot. I'd be less surprised if you'd told me Mrs. Hudson was studying for a degree in advanced mathematics." After a moment, he adds rather abruptly, "She told you this?"

Sherlock nods. Off of Mycroft's look, he proactively counters, "She's a terrible liar. Except by omission."

Mycroft places his hand on his desk, then after a moment, responds "It's not as though you could have had a _normal_ life with her. She is not like women are _supposed_ to be. I have simply saved you the frustration…."

Sherlock interrupts, "You used your personal mobile to make the call just now. It's not secure. There are sweat marks on your desk. You said 'people like you', as if we are different. It's not about world security. Or even national best interest. It's about _her_."

"Oh, here we go." Mycroft sighs, shaking his head.

"You never booked a professional. It was late and you had been drinking when you called that night to harangue me. I didn't remark at the time because, well… You knew she was there. You wanted to meet her," Sherlock deduces.

"Don't sound so shocked. You are well aware that I have you under surveillance – someone has to keep you out of the drug dens. And yes, I like to keep tabs on the company you keep," Mycroft responds, a bit too calmly.

"You'd talked about her before. Years ago. Yes, I remember now. Some eternal Christmas day with Mother and Dad; there was an article in the paper about her research and you made some comment about her making a good match."

"In _chess_. I simply said that she would make a worthy opponent and how strange it was to say that about a woman," Mycroft responds defensively.

"You wanted her for yourself. You're jealous. Of _me_," Sherlock deduces with some surprise.

"Please. I could have arranged to meet her any number of times had I wanted to. Or hadn't you noticed my penchant for…"

"But not like that. She would have hated to be corralled in the usual way and you _fancied_ her."

"I will admit that I was, at one time now long past, intrigued by the possibility of …"

"…having a normal life," Sherlock interrupts.

With an unusual show of emotion, Mycroft blusters, "Surely, brother, I am better equipped than…"

Sherlock holds his hand up to stop him finishing. "Enough. You've kicked the ball over the fence so now neither of us can play. Well done."

"What a ridiculous metaphor. You know very well neither of us have _ever_ kicked a ball."

**The End.**

_**There is an Epilogue. Interested?**_


	20. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Two years later…_

Sherlock is in the lab morgue looking down a microscope when Molly comes in carrying a box.

"Would you mind helping me down to the recycling?" Molly asks, obviously struggling.

"I would, a little bit," Sherlock responds without looking up.

"I've got two boxes and don't want to have to wait for the lift twice," Molly explains.

Sherlock sighs loudly, but gets up. She sets the box she was carrying down and walks across the hall to pick up the other one. When she returns, he is holding a large padded envelope.

"What's this?" He asks.

"Came when I was on holiday last month, I think. Just a symposium proceedings. Don't know how they got my address – it's chemical engineering," she shrugs.

Sherlock's eyes widen.

"Where did the meeting take place?" He asks with unusual interest.

"I don't know. Somewhere in the Middle East? I didn't look that closely," she answers.

"Where is the book?" He asks excitedly, flipping the empty envelope over.

"In the pile, why?"

"Can I have it?"

"I suppose. If you can find it," she says, happy to have something of interest to him.

Sherlock starts rifling through the pile of papers until he finds the softcover book. He eagerly opens it and scans the author list. After a moment, he snaps the book shut and tucks it under his arm.

"When were you on holiday?"

"The first two weeks of this month," she says rather dejectedly.

He flips the book open again and looks for the publication date. Frowning, he walks toward the door.

"Sorry, this absolutely cannot wait," he says and quickly leaves.

Calling after him, "But you have to go downstairs anyway – couldn't you just take the stupid box?" Molly says, her voice quickly trailing off.

Mrs. Hudson carefully unlocks the door to Sherlock's flat and steps inside. As she walks around to the kitchen, she lets out a deep sigh. There are empty bags of crisps, apple cores, old cups of tea with now spoiled milk all scattered about. On the table, she finds piles of papers with scribbles on them, some of them bunched up and tossed aside. As she attempts to straighten the un-crumpled papers into a pile, a softbound book slips through the mess and drops to the floor with a loud _thunk_.

As she is leaning over to pick it up, Sherlock's head pops up from the other side of the settee and he asks,

"What day is it?"

She starts with a gasp and bringing her hand to her chest she says, "Sherlock! You've given me quite a fright. I didn't think you were in. Haven't heard a peep up here in a very long time. What have you been doing?" She asks with some concern.

Ignoring her words, he just repeats his question, "What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Is it? Time to go, then," he says as he pops up from the settee and heads directly to his bedroom to get dressed.

She just hakes her head and resumes her tidying. After a few minutes, Sherlock emerges fully dressed and quickly walks toward the door.

"When can I expect you back? I think the floor could use a good scrub," Mrs. Hudson asks.

"Tomorrow night, maybe? Or the day after," he answers with a hint of cheer in his voice.

"Aren't you taking a bag?" She asks, confused.

"Excellent. Nearly forgot. You're a dear, Mrs. Hudson," he says as he trots off to the spare room to grab a small bag that had already been packed and was sitting on the bed. Afterwards, he heads quickly out the door.

Sherlock travels about town doing errands as he makes his way around to John's flat. First, a trip to the main library of University College, London. Then off to the post office to gather things from a box he'd been keeping. Next to a barber for a haircut and a shave. Finally, he arrives at John's door and knocks.

John answers and is a bit shocked to find Sherlock standing in the doorway.

"Did we have a meeting scheduled?" John asks.

"No. Nothing." Sherlock answers gleefully.

"Do you want to come in?" John offers.

"Not particularly, but I imagine you will need a few minutes to pack your bag," he says as he walks into the flat.

"Pack my bag?" John says, closing the front door.

Sherlock smiles, "I need you to come to Bahrain with me."

"Today?" John asks, incredulous.

Checking his watch, Sherlock says, "We should be at the airport in an hour, give or take."

John shakes his head. "What makes you think I can just get on a plane and go to Bahrain?"

Looking around the flat, Sherlock says, "Mary's not here, so she must have taken the child somewhere – visiting a friend, perhaps? You _are_ here, so you must be on call later this weekend so you couldn't go with her. I'll have you back tomorrow night. Saturday at the latest."

John thinks a minute and quickly softens up about it.

"Why Bahrain?"

"I have to attend a trial."

"Whose trial?"

"Unimportant. I am a surprise witness," he says with an odd delight, practically bouncing on his toes.

"Ah."

"It might not go well. But it _might_."

"Is this for a case?"

"Something like that. Come now, go get your passport," Sherlock says with a shooing motion.

"This doesn't involve Irene, does it? Because the last time I ended up spending the night on a pile of dirty towels in the maid's closet at the hotel, an experience I do not wish to repeat."

"Well, you can never quite predict when Irene might make an appearance, but I can assure you, she has nothing to do with this case."

Satisfied, John walks toward his bedroom. "It'll be hot there, right?"

"As it is in the desert, I would imagine so."

"Wouldn't mind a bit of sun."

John emerges a few minutes later with a small bag. As they are about to head out the door, Sherlock stops.

"Did you bring a book?"

"Why?"

"It's a long flight."

"What, you don't fancy a seven hour chat with your best friend? Of course I brought a book. You're a misery on planes."

Many hours later, they arrive at the small courthouse. The trial is already underway. There is a woman in a full burka with only eyes visible on the witness stand. It is obvious that she is the defendant. Sherlock passes a note to the defense attorney, who is dressed in a western style suit.

"What is she on trial for?" John whispers to Sherlock.

"The religious term is _Nushuz, _meaning disobedience, disloyalty, rebellion, and/or ill conduct in a wife. But the husband has taken her to _court_ charging fraud," Sherlock responds reading a slip of paper that had been handed to him.

**_Author's note: The proceedings take place in Arabic, of course, but as I don't know the language, I will write it all in English. Assume that neither John nor Sherlock can understand what is being said unless otherwise noted._**

The Lawyer for the defense announces, "The defendant would like to put forth that she was unaware that the law allowing multiple marriages was limited to men. She never claimed to Mr. Al Arayyed that she was unmarried."

There is a loud murmur in the courtroom at this. The prosecuting attorney exchanges words with his client, who is shaking his head in confusion.

The judge calls for order.

The prosecuting attorney says, "We do not understand the relevance of that statement. Can Mr. Rajab clarify for the court?"

Mr. Rajab nods and explains, "As my client was married prior to her relationship to Mr. Al Arayyed, her marriage to him is not legally valid. She was not aware that this was the case due to her misunderstanding of our marriage laws. In any case, as Mr. Al Arayyed is not her husband, he cannot, by law, charge her with _Nushuz_."

The judge frowns, "Can she offer proof of this prior marriage, Mr. Rajab?"

"We can, your honor," Mr. Rajab replies.

"Approach the bench," the judge commands.

Mr. Rajab walks to up to the judge, is met there by the prosecuting attorney and hands over a series of documents, which they all examine. The judge dismisses them back to their tables.

"Where is this husband, then? Surely he will want to charge her with adultery," the judge says, obviously irritated at this turn of events.

"He is present in the courtroom, your honor. As a foreign national, he wishes to bring his wife back to their home country for prosecution. He is in possession of her documents and travels with a law enforcement official to that purpose," Mr. Rajab answers.

"Will the husband of this woman please identify himself to the court," requests the judge.

Mr. Rajab turns around and nods. Sherlock stands up. He whispers to John, "Try to look official."

John responds confused, "What's going on? What kind of _official_?"

"Approach," the judge says with a wave.

Sherlock walks up to the bench, beckoning for John to accompany him. John looks around nervously, but follows. The lawyers meet them there. A flurry of arguing in Arabic follows as they all discuss the development. After a few moments, Mr. Rajab whispers something into Sherlock's ear.

He turns to the woman sitting in silence while the men all discuss her fate and says, "Bad, bad, wife. I am appalled at your behavior and you absolutely _must_ be punished."

Mr. Rajab frowns slightly, shaking his head. After another minute or two of discussion in Arabic, there seems to be a consensus.

"You may take her. But go quickly. I hope you have a car waiting," Mr. Rajab says.

"Sorry, what is happening?" John asks, relieved to finally hear someone speaking English.

Mr. Rajab turns to John and says, "You may take Mr. Holmes' wife into custody. If you have the means to get out of the country today, I would advise it. Mr. Al Arayyed only agreed to this small town venue because he didn't expect any opposition."

"You're wife?" John says to Sherlock.

"Just go with it," Sherlock responds.

Sherlock takes the papers from the judge and gives John a look with a nod toward the woman. Understanding, John takes a step towards her. Sherlock pushes his bag toward John, who glances down into it, seeing a pair of handcuffs. He dutifully picks them up out of the bag with another sideways glance to Sherlock and moves toward the woman. She lifts her wrists up in anticipation and John fastens the cuffs. Sherlock starts walking toward the exit; John follows holding the woman's arm and doing his best to look "official". You can hear the _click click click_ of the woman's heals as she walks along the stone floor.

Once outside the courthouse, they all briskly walk around the back to where a large car with a driver is waiting for them. The minute they turn the corner, the woman says,

"Can you please take this bloody thing off my head?"

Sherlock quickly unlocks the handcuffs and she pulls off the headpiece of the burka and tosses it into the grass.

"Sio?" John says with surprise.

"Burka's are brilliant for hiding, don't you think?" Sio responds. "Face recognition software is not currently up to the challenge."

Sherlock glances at her, "Your hair has wilted."

"I suppose the climate doesn't agree with me. Or maybe it was prison. Nothing like leaving it to the last possible moment," she chastises.

"I think it worked out beautifully. So dramatic," Sherlock counters with a pleased smirk.

"I must say, I am quite relieved that you're still alive, _husband_. I believe if I had been found guilty, I could have been stoned and I wouldn't fancy that one bit."

"It would seem rather rude of me to go off and die while my wife was away pretending to be married to someone else for two years," Sherlock says with mock jealousy.

Sio responds playfully, "Now, now, the ceremony with Yaz was only 20 months ago. Sadly, you need a husband to do _anything_ in this country. And money. Yazan helpfully provided both. Of course I thought of you every day, my sweet. Perhaps every week. Certainly every month at the very least."

"How moving," Sherlock sneers.

"I didn't think of John at all," She offers.

"That's something," Sherlock says.

John interrupts, "So you two are actually married, then?"

Sio nods, "Try to keep up, John."

Sherlock tosses her a small box, saying, "We need to make this believable."

"You bought me a ring? I'm touched," she says with genuine surprise. She takes it out of the box and slips it on the ring finger of her left hand.

"Don't get too excited, it was _your_ money."

"Is there any left?" She asks.

"A bit. I do have needs, you know."

"I am well aware," she smirks. "What about the small detail of my getting out of this lovely little hell hole?"

Sherlock hands her a glossy looking British passport. She opens it, quickly flipping through the pages.

She stops, "You changed my name?!"

"There was no other way to escape Mycroft's sporadic inquiries."

"But first _and_ last? Seems a bit excessive."

"I thought it was rather clever," Sherlock answers.

John takes the passport and flips to the ID page. Siobhan S. Holmes.

John asks, "What _is_ your given name then?"

"Cassiopeia."

"Ah, so your parents were hippies," John says.

She frowns, "Stargazers, more like."

"And you got this past Mycroft?" John asks.

"He never thought to look at marriage registries. And then enough time passed that I was able to sneak the paperwork for the passport through when he was particularly distracted with one national emergency or another. I am so looking forward to telling him," Sherlock gloats.

"I'm going to fantasize that you instigated such emergencies just for my benefit," Sio says looking up into the sky.

They step into the backseat of a waiting car.

"Will I have to keep it? The name - you know, once we get rid of this nonsense?" Sio asks.

"Possibly. There's no rush, of course," Sherlock answers.

"I suppose not," Sio responds with a slightly perplexed smile.

"What about your brother?" John asks with genuine concern.

"He is taken care of. I was able to get him out a few weeks ago," Sio responds.

"But did you solve it? Were you able to communicate?" John enthuses.

Sio rolls her eyes and answers as if talking to a child. "Yes. That is why I am going back now. Otherwise, I would still be working on it."

"Good to see you haven't lost your ability to condescend," John mutters.

"I wouldn't need to condescend if you would not be so hesitant to use your brain," Sio responds with unnecessary harshness.

"Now, now darling. John must work with what he _has_," Sherlock intervenes.

Feeling chastened, "Sorry. I suppose it's all a bit new. In a nutshell, I was able to communicate with him and he told me to leave him alone. Seems he wasn't interested in solving the problems of the universe with me. He had created a virtual life for himself – a wife, kids, the whole lot, inside his mind. He had no interest in the real world. Said it would be too hard to start over. So I promised I'd keep his body comfortable. Still seemed keen on _my_ going to space, though."

"That must have been hard," John says.

"I'd really like a cigarette. Do either of you…?"

Sherlock pulls out a fag from his pocket, gives it to her and flashes a lighter. She takes a long drag.

"Yes," is all she can say in response to John's concern.

"You did your best," Sherlock offers abruptly.

"Indeed. And pretty good, too. Only took a year, once I had everything in place. We created an underground science bunker. Staffed with intellectually frustrated women, unable to work in that godforsaken country. They were a cracking good team. I'll miss them."

"How did you hide it?" John asks.

"We had a cover. Said we were running a shelter for battered women. With a little help of a wig and a few tissues, brother made a surprisingly attractive abuse victim. Would have kept going had _he_ not gotten so obsessed with children."

"Who?"

"Sorry. My husband. The _other_ one. Dragged me to a fertility clinic after the first year I didn't get pregnant. Was able to bluff through the first couple of exams, but eventually they figured out I'd had my tubes tied. That's when the trouble started. He found a doctor who said he could reverse it. I refused, making up some rubbish about an allergy to anesthesia. Worked for a while, or so I thought. Then one day, he drugged me, they put me under and that was that. Refused to touch him after that. Things got really ugly."

"I brought you some clothes," Sherlock says, handing her a small bag.

"Oh, thank God. I hate these bloody tents," she says. Pulling the burka over her head, it is quickly revealed that she is wearing nothing underneath save for a pair of black knickers and bra. John looks away awkwardly, but his eyes are quickly drawn back. Sio is covered in bruises and cuts of various ages, some of them rather horrific. Sherlock's face falls. She unselfconsciously continues to get dressed, pulling the sundress Sherlock had brought over her head.

Sherlock diverts his eyes, obviously disturbed by the sight of her beaten body. "I should have figured it out sooner," he says through tight lips.

"Before you two get all chivalrous and weepy, lets remember that I brought this on myself. I was playing a long con and I lost. I couldn't quite hold it together long enough and my mark was just clever enough to figure out how to get to me. In the end, I did get what I needed – not bad for a pretend sociopath. Now lets just get out of this country before they arrest me for assault."

"Arrest _you_ for assault?" John asks.

Sio shrugs, "I fought back."

"That cut on your back looks like it might be infected," John observes, concerned. "I should take a closer look."

"When we are safely in the air," she insists.

As she is pulling on some socks, she says casually, "Did you know that it is perfectly legal to beat the crap out of your wife in this country? But what really galls me is that he hired men to do it for him. If you are going to beat your wife, have the commitment to bloody well do it yourself."

"The irony," Sherlock observes, thinking back to the cover for her research lab.

Sherlock tosses her a bottle of pills, which she uncharacteristically drops. Her lips pull to the sides and she closes her eyes, frustrated. John picks up the bottle and hands it to her. She nods and takes out a couple of pills and pops them into her mouth, hands shaking slightly.

"How long?" John asks.

"Things were going so well with the research. There's no way I could leave, even if I could figure another way out," Sio says.

The car stops. Sio is putting on her boots.

Thinking a moment, John says, "I wonder if your brother might have known. Maybe that was his way of trying to protect you."

"What do you mean?" Sio responds, struggling with the zipper.

Sherlock quickly interrupts. "John. Lets have a word. Now."

"What?" John asks, annoyed.

"Get out of the car," Sherlock orders, opening the door. As they leave, Sherlock pops his head back into the car, "Take your time." He closes the door and then gets right up in to John's face.

"Do _NOT_ bring that up again," he says with force.

"I suppose it was a bit insensitive, given the timing. But I do think it's a possibility that he saw what pain she was in and so told her the _only_ thing that would make her leave. She needn't give up on him entirely," John says.

"Just drop it," Sherlock repeats.

Taken aback by Sherlock's insistence, John tilts his head after a moment, working something out in his mind.

"You're not worried about _her_. You're not concerned about her fragile mental state. You're worried she might leave again." He shakes his head in dismay, "Just when I think you've grown a bit…just when I…"

Sio opens the car door, effectively ending the conversation. She steps out onto the sidewalk, glancing up to see the airport departure sign. She closes her eyes and smiles before standing up fully. She strides right up to Sherlock and kisses him; after a moment she stays with her cheek touching his and whispers, "I had no idea how much I missed you until right now."

Sherlock looks over at John with a rather desperate expression. John just nods with a slight frown and grabs the bags.

**_Author's note: So this is supposed to be the end. And artistically, I feel like it should be for a variety of reasons that I won't bore you with._**

**_But the truth is, I have mentally advanced the story a bit from here (mostly relationship stuff, but some exposition). I could keep it to myself. But if you are not ready to be done with Sio and Sherlock, please drop me a line. _**


	21. Session 5

**Author's note: This chapter contains sexual situations. I have edited it as best I can for a youth audience. If you are over 18 and would like to read the full version, it is posted on adult fan fiction dot org. **

**This encounter would have taken place chronologically sometime before Chapter 5. **

**Session 5**

Sherlock walks down the unfamiliar hallway toward the door at the end, which has been left slightly ajar. His pace slows slightly at his approach and as he reaches the door, he gives a perfunctory knock as he steps through the entrance.

Sio, emerging from the kitchen with a glass of water says with only mild curiosity, "Why did you stop on your way up?"

"It was only for a moment," he answers.

She shrugs, "Twenty seconds. You rang the buzzer and had you walked straight up with your standard pace, allowing for the brief interruptions of momentum to open the stairway doors and the deceleration on approach, you would have been at the door twenty seconds earlier. Enough for a phone call, I suppose or contemplative moment."

"A text from John," he lies.

She knows a text would not use of that much time, but decides not to call him on it.

"Are you alright being here? I hate to introduce distraction, but…"

Scanning the room, Sherlock observes, "there is nothing to distract."

It is not that the room is overly neat. That, in and of itself, would tell him something; A recent visit from a cleaner, a desire to hide bad habits. Instead, the room is appropriately lived in, but yet completely devoid of clues as the mental state of the occupier. As though everything has been _placed_ innocuously. He experiences a pang of anxiety as his mind races to discern some meaning in this.

Watching his eyes dart around the room, she takes a guess, saying "I partition my living space as well; I don't spend much time in this room except for…_entertaining._"

"Is this room staged for me?" He blurts out, unable to contain himself.

She puts the glass down on a small kitchen table and lets her eyes fall over the details of her living room. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do," he says with too much tension.

Sio scans Sherlock's face, "You and I contemplate very different sorts of mysteries. What I see in this room is a profound lack of motion; I suppose what you see is a lack of information."

"Back to my question," Sherlock insists.

"I would never actively attempt to deceive you, Sherlock. I take it as a compliment that you think me clever enough to try."

"_Active_ being the key word," Sherlock quips.

It is her turn to experience a thrill at his quickness. She marvels at how _differently_ clever he is.

She leans back to partially sit on the arm of her sofa. "There are other rooms in this flat. I will not keep you from exploring them, if it would set your mind at ease. However, my home office is so full of chaos, I fear we might never make it to the bedroom and I was quite looking forward to that bit," she responds, lifting an eyebrow.

Catching her eye as she says this, he flushes slightly at the reminder of why he is there; his instinctual suspicions fading at the anticipation of what is to come.

"Perhaps I can have a tour _after_," he suggests.

"That would be rather unfair," she smirks, recalling how charmingly pliant and mentally relaxed he is after sex. "Next time, perhaps, when we have less _material_ to cover."

Sherlock nods with an intrigued smile as he walks over to the table and takes a sip of water from the glass that she had left. Sio slips off the sofa and approaches him, noting the focus of his gaze as he watches her move towards him. She reaches up to put her hands on his shoulders, slipping off his jacket in one smooth motion, pausing only slightly to extend their proximity before walking over to place it on the coat stand by the door. She can practically feel his eyes on her body. She is dressed in casual clothes that softly cling, emphasizing the shape of her breasts, the curve of her hips. Her shirt scoops down around her neck, exposing the topology of her collarbone around the thin arch of her neck. He is dressed in his usual manner; a slim fitting button down cotton shirt, a dark color, which she had offhandedly mentioned was her preference, this time a deep blue, along with rather nondescript dark grey trousers, obviously tailored to match is narrow height.

Sio suspects, based on his expression, that it may have been a mistake to mention the bedroom so soon, as his attention is now decidedly fixed. Perhaps she will have to take the edge off before beginning the night's lesson.

As she walks back towards him, she says, "Were you thinking about me on your way here?"

He nods, obviously uncomfortable at having to acknowledge it.

"Is that why you stopped in the hallway?" She guesses, but then quickly relents, "Nevermind."

"Where is the bedroom? I'd guess the second door on the right down the hall, but…"

"Lets stay here a minute. Tell me what you were thinking," she says as she steps even closer.

"I was wondering what tonight's subject would be."

"Liar."

"I was thinking about your body."

"And?"

He takes a breath and responds with a deeper, more considered voice, "What it will feel like. On the outside and…on the inside." He reaches his hand forward toward her breast, but hesitates just inches away from her shirt, glancing up at her, waiting for a reaction.

"Tell me more," she says as she takes hold of his hand, preventing it from reaching its target.

He licks his lips, unsure how to articulate his thoughts. "The taste of your skin, the feel of your nipples on my tongue…"

At this, Sio allows his hand to continue its trajectory to her breast. At the last second, he drops his arm down, finds the bottom of her shirt and slips it up and under in order to fully grasp the skin of her tit. The determination of the gesture gives her a quick thrill.

"Did you get hard in the taxi?" She asks as she rests her hand on the one that is now massaging her breast.

He shakes his head with a touch of embarrassment, "I waited until I got to your building to allow the thoughts in."

He moves in closer to kiss her; she pulls back slightly, delaying the touch of their lips.

_[Edited for explicit sexual content]_

After a few moments, he pushes himself up, pulls out of her and stands, stabilizing himself with a hand on the table. He pulls up his trousers, not really sure what to do next.

She smiles as she gets up from the table, careful to slip her knickers completely off as she stands, tossing them to him.

"I'm going to clean up. Meet me in the bedroom. In a few minutes, I think you'll be ready to listen."

"Listen?"

"Tonight's lesson, of course. You were far too distracted before. Sometimes clarity requires release."

About ten minutes later, Sio appears in the doorway of her own bedroom carrying two cups of tea. She is wearing yet another negligee, this one with a lace, low-cut, form fitting bust with soft fabric bodice extending just below her hips, a matching pair of panties visible with any motion. She is rather surprised to find Sherlock sitting in a chair across from the bed, still dressed save for his belt, shoes and socks.

"That took a long time," he says.

"I thought I would give you ample time to snoop," she replies, handing him one of the mugs. She adds, "I hope you don't mind it black."

"It's fine," he says taking a sip. Oddly, he had not snooped. The thought hadn't entered his head.

"So what is going on with this," she says, obviously referring to both his placement and his clothing.

He frowns uncomfortably. "Seemed strange, frankly, to climb naked into someone else's bed without them present. And it's so…_large_."

"It's just a queen," she answers defensively. "Gives us more options," she says with a wink.

"I'll take your word for it," he says with comfortable resignation.

"Speaking of, I had considered inviting someone to join us tonight," she offers.

Sherlock nearly spits out his tea. "Whatever for?"

"Well, we've made a good start exploring _your_ tastes. And though, of course, that will continue; tastes change, desires become more refined with experience, etc., I thought it best for us to switch the focus a bit. As I have said, being a good lover requires knowing what _you_ want, but it also requires being perceptive to the desires of your partner. And pleasing one's partner invariably enriches the experience overall. I have been with selfish lovers, but never more than once. In any case, the thought occurred to me that perhaps you might benefit from a demonstration."

Sherlock frowns rather skeptically. Sio quickly adds, "Another woman, of course. But as I only thought of it today, it seemed wrong to spring it on you. I could still arrange something if you wish."

"I don't think that will be necessary," he says with a tone of mild irritation, though not for the reason she thinks.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she says, "I didn't mean to offend. It was just a thought. Perhaps another time." Thinking of something, she decides to say, "On that note, if you should ever decide that you might be bisexual, please do let me know. I know a man who would be happy to join us."

He just takes another sip of tea without saying anything, obviously not really ready to consider such options. She rather regrets having brought it up – she was only thinking practically, but that has often backfired on her in the past. With Sherlock, his lack of experience and her role as instructor began as the starting point of a fun game, an exaggeration of reality. But sometimes she wonders how much of an exaggeration it actually is…

Detecting his mental withdrawal, she sits down on the bed and beckons him over. He puts his tea down, gets up, walks over to the bed and rather stiffly sits next to her. She touches the top of his hand with the back of hers, then unbuttons the cuff of his shirt and moves her fingers across the skin of his forearm. He tenses.

"What's wrong?" she asks mildly.

Sherlock turns to look at her with an intensity that is neither relaxed nor pliant.

"I've never been very good at not being selfish," he says with honest concern.

She finds this oddly endearing.

"Not to worry. Everything I am going to show you is _ultimately_ self-serving. Many find the act of pleasing their partners intensely arousing, but even if you don't, you can view it as a mechanism of delay that will enhance the rest of the experience. Not to mention resulting in more sex overall, as a satisfied lover will keep coming back," she reassures.

"Have I _not_ been pleasing up to now?" He asks.

"Satisfaction is relative. I have found our encounters satisfying in many ways, but I can envision so much more," she says with some diplomacy.

"You misunderstand. In these matters, my ego is not so easily bruised. I am simply curious."

"My body, my experience, allows me to take more pleasure out of sex than many women; you _have _been able to please me without much conscious effort, but others may not be so easily satisfied."

"So you are doing this for benefit of _other_ women," he responds dubiously.

She sits back and smiles broadly. "Alright, that's utter, if not complete bollocks. Honestly, I am an extraordinarily selfish woman who wants to have mind-blowingly, earth-shatteringly awesome, multi-orgasmic sex with you. And based on what I have seen so far and other things that I can't quite put my finger on, I think you have the potential to be a fantastically skilled lover and I just want you to learn to get me off in as many ways as possible. Clear?"

"You had me at multi-orgasmic," he says as he rushes forward, playfully pushing her back onto the bed.

"Now, you still have to _listen_ to me," she admonishes as he tries to kiss her. He hovers over her for a moment before leaning down for a brief kiss after which he rolls on to his side, propping his head on his elbow.

"Can I listen _and_ touch?" He asks as he reaches over and traces the outline of her waist with his hand.

"I don't know, can you?" she says as she rolls over onto her side to face him, also propping her head on her elbow. "You need to focus. Getting me off is a tricky business," she says with mock seriousness.

"Go on," he says.

"Physically, women _can_ be a challenge, as their response varies more, both between individuals and over time."

"Why?"

She is a bit surprised by the question, thinking she would just be monologuing from here. "Well, in short, we think too much. Female brains parse the sexual signals we get from our bodies and this creates a feedback loop. Such loops can be interfered with rather easily."

"Give me an example," he says, his brain still oddly sharp.

"Some women had a bad experience early on or were told by someone that girls don't like sex. So their brain effectively blocks the sexual signals they get from their body leading them to truly believe that they can't enjoy or don't desire sex. So you have to overcome the mental block to free the physical side, which can be difficult. Or on a more short-term basis, if the brain is distracted with something nonsexual – a chore, a conflict, it can be difficult to engage the body without lifting the distraction first."

"Give me an example that applies to you."

"My physical attraction to someone is modulated by my mental perception of them. I won't orgasm with a person I don't like, no matter how proficient they are. It's as if my brain puts up a wall. Frankly, I find that limitation rather inconvenient."

"Well that's not a very sexy story," he sighs.

Seeing his disappointment, she considers a moment before continuing. "Alright, here's another one. You look different to me now that you did when we first met. As in, when I look at you, what I actually see – how my brain processes the visual input from my eyes – has changed. Every time I see you, I find you more attractive because I like you."

"If it makes the getting you off bit easier, I'll take it," he says with a smirk.

"Speaking of, lets get back to the lesson, shall we? I will show you what I like and how to please me. But know that for any woman you are with, there will be a learning curve that requires you to be both perceptive and adaptable. The key is to pay attention."

"Yes, Miss," he replies.

_[Edited for explicit sexual content]_

"Sorry. It's the third orgasm giggles. It's a thing that happens. Be thankful you weren't still inside me when it started."

He closes his eyes, wondering how long it will be before his brain starts to work again.

"Where am I?" he asks in partial jest.

"Would you believe me if I told you that it can be better _still_?" She asks, unable to completely contain her laughter.

"I would believe anything you told me right now," Sherlock admits sleepily.


	22. Alley Alley Oxen Free

**Alley Alley Oxen Free**

_**Author's note: DH felt slighted that I had referenced a sexual encounter in the first chapter (This is Not the Beginning) that I failed to later elaborate on. I told him there really wasn't much more to say about it. But then I thought, why not, it's Friday. So here it is – the aforementioned alley sex. **_

_**Warning: Sexual situation. **_

Sherlock is walking down a street in London, his mind so distracted by his current case that he has already missed two turns and is contemplating getting a taxi. Worried that he will miss his contact, he stops to pull out his phone and send a quick text. As he pushes the send button, he hears a woman's voice say,

"Sherlock?"

He looks up to find Sio, dressed in what she would call her shagging clothes, though covered in a coat due to the rain, which has just started to flow in earnest. There is a man a few steps away from her, attempting to flag down a taxi. Sio and Sherlock just stand there, transfixed, blinking at each other as the rain beats down on their heads; neither say anything, but neither look away. Many weeks have passed since that day in the hospital. It would seem they are now frozen in a state of indecision at this wholly unexpected encounter. The man tries to get Sio's attention and she completely ignores him. He gestures to the rain and attempts to hand her an umbrella. Failing to get a response, he speaks to Sherlock, who also does not respond in the slightest. Finally, Sio breaks the gaze to adjust her hair, which had begun to channel the rainwater downward into her eyes. Sherlock reacts immediately, closing the distance between them and pulling her in to a kiss. Watching Sio actively participate in the embrace, the man swears angrily and gets into the taxi by himself.

Sherlock remembers passing an alley just a few meters before and he breaks the kiss to lead her to it. They take a few steps into the alley, away from the main street. He pushes her against the wall of one of the buildings and they kiss rather desperately. She pulls at his belt as he yanks up her skirt and once the fabric barriers are cleared, she throws her legs around him as he pushes himself inside. They don't say a word. It's all thrusting and grunting and heavy breathing. They are completely oblivious to the few people who walk by on the main street, scuttling quickly to escape the rain, glancing only briefly toward the pair of bodies in a very public, private type of embrace.

He wants to hold back; he wants it to last longer. He had nearly forgotten how good it feels. All this time and he'd never once let himself think of this, of _her_. He slows his pace just enough to not be obvious, but soon she is gripping his neck, whining into his ear as she tries not to scream out. He grabs hold of her hips tightly as he joins her, getting in just a few more rough thrusts before spilling into her, his knees nearly giving out. They stay there just a moment afterward, connected.

Sio leans forward to kiss him again, but then pulls back, dropping her legs down. She straightens her skirt and walks away without a word, heart still pounding; the wetness spreading down her leg, but hidden by the drenching rain. Sherlock just stands there a moment with his head against the bricks, watching her walk away. He struggles to understand how he could have managed so long without a thought of her.

_Wait, where was I going?_


	23. Session 12

**Session 12**

**Warning: This chapter contains sexual content. I have edited it for explicit content as much as possible. If you are over 18 and would like to read the full version, it is posted on adultfanfic dot org as well as Archive of Our Own.**

Sio sits in her home office, typing frantically on her keyboard. Every twenty or thirty seconds, she pauses briefly and looks over to her phone. Of course, she doesn't _have_ to pause. She is a touch typist and could glance over with only the slightest reduction in typing speed. But the glances harbor thoughts.

What she should do when she is finished typing up her notes is sleep. She had been working nearly continuously for 16 days straight, sleeping in short shifts throughout the days. For some reason, she was particularly driven on this problem and entirely absorbed in her attempts to solve it. Not to complain – this is exactly the sort of thing that she loves about her work. But it is rather punishing on body and mind.

The thing is, she doesn't want to sleep. She wants distraction. She wants relief. She wants _him_. Wait, did she just think that? Sio attempts to correct herself –_ I crave physical contact, I want sex, I want to relinquish control to the other part of my brain for a while. It doesn't have to be Sherlock. _And yet, she continues to glance over at her phone, hoping he will respond to her texts.

After a few more minutes, she grabs her phone and sends another text – not to Sherlock, but to one of her other partners, the least annoying of the bunch. She is definitely not in the mood to find someone new. It would take too much effort and she doesn't have the energy or the time. After hitting send, she gets up and heads to the shower. When she returns, she is disappointed to find an answer to her text, but not the one she was hoping for. As she gets ready, she attempts to convince herself that Ewan will be fine; he is nice looking, experienced, enthusiastic. Sometimes too enthusiastic, honestly. And what is it with all the car metaphors? Not to mention that his breath smells of juniper. And he always gets so anxious if she doesn't greet him with a big smile. She frowns at her phone. It's only 21:00. Maybe she will just call….

Sio blinks the tiredness out of her eyes as she walks down the street toward Sherlock's flat. She had decided against a taxi, not wanting to arrive before him and thinking the night air might take some of the dizziness away. Dangerously, she lets her mind wander to him. She has no plan for the night, no lesson. She envisions a much simpler scenario with more skin and less talk. _Why is his initial indifference, his hesitancy so arousing?_ Perhaps because there is no need to pretend, not even for a moment. He has no defined expectations of her or how she should behave. His reactions are genuine, if not always nice. He never does anything he doesn't want to or says anything he doesn't mean. Most women would find that appealing in principle, but appalling in practice. Sio finds it rather irresistible.

When she arrives at his flat, the door is not open as it has been the last few times. She knocks. Sherlock opens the door with a rather sharp brusqueness, stepping out of the way for her to pass. He looks unusually disheveled, but purposely so? She quickly hangs her coat and walks towards him.

"I hope you're hydrated," she says with a sexy smirk.

Before she reaches him, he takes a step back and says, "Good point. Shall I make some tea?"

Giving him a quizzical look, she replies, "I didn't come here for tea."

"No, but sometimes when the opportunity presents itself, best to take advantage," Sherlock says as he walks into the kitchen and fills the kettle.

Sio is left standing in the middle of the room, unsure.

"Interesting case?" She asks, assuming that perhaps he is simply distracted.

"Enough to be mildly diverting, but solved now," he answers with indifference.

As they wait for the kettle to boil, she contemplates just walking up to him and dropping to her knees – that is usually a good strategy when trying to speed things up. But after taking a couple of steps forward, he darts to the other side of the room. He grabs a magazine and returns, handing it to her on his way back to the kitchen.

"Though you might find this interesting," he says.

She frowns, and then glances down at the article he has marked; something about mathematics and music.

"Perhaps I'll bring it with me later to read in the taxi," she responds.

"I think you should read it now," he says, pouring the cups of tea.

"What's that sound?" She asks now that the kettle has stopped.

"What sound?" Sherlock asks with a knowing smirk, walking toward her with the mugs.

"It's your metronome," she observes.

He hands her a mug, letting his fingers touch her hand during the transfer, after which she promptly sets it down on the table by the settee. She is about to reach her arm out to touch his waist when she stops abruptly, squinting her eyes.

"It's slowing down. I can't…can you just turn it off or wind it up or…?" She says in frustration.

"I'm sorry. Do you find that distracting? Perhaps you should just drink your tea." He can't stop himself from smirking.

"You know I can't tune that sort of thing out," she answers in mild annoyance.

At this, he sets his tea down, steps forward and kisses her while reaching his hand up under her dress and between her legs.

She half engages with him, her mind still dwelling on the decreasing periodicity of the metronome.

Then he quickly breaks away from her and walks over to a cupboard, which he opens revealing the offending device. He turns it off, saying,

"No pants tonight – are you in a rush or something?"

Getting it, she says with some surprise, "Are you teasing me?"

He walks back up to her, this time leaning in to kiss her neck and reach his hand into her shirt for a moment. With one of her hands, she starts to unbutton his shirt, relishing in the feel of his skin beneath the fabric, her mind starting to swim again. She hears a click as he pulls away.

He casually picks up his mug of tea and takes a sip.

"Did you just handcuff me to the settee?" She asks in disbelief.

He nods his head to the side and explains, "I still have to take a shower. Don't want you to get all handsy on me."

Sherlock sets his tea back down and takes his shirt off dramatically.

Still reeling from the development, "You're not seriously going to leave me here?"

"Think of it as a _mechanism of delay_. Just a rather more physical one than you tend to impose," he says devilishly.

"You naughty boy. One would think a fortnight would be enough," Sio responds, clearly amused.

"Well, I can only assume that you didn't start thinking about sex until tonight, so most of that time doesn't count. Besides, isn't this more fun?"

"I'm not sure you are ready for what I will plan while you are in the shower. It's going to be a long night."

He takes a step forward, but stays just out of reach.

"If you get too wild, I'll just have to lock you back up," he answers.

"Promise?" She asks.

"Perhaps. Now drink your tea," he commands and turns toward the bathroom.

Watching him disappear into the other room, Sio smiles to herself. Though the night isn't going as she had planned or expected, she finds this new development rather exciting, despite her immediate physical discomfort. She closes her eyes and thinks about him in the shower, the hot water streaming down his body.

_**Edited for explicit content.**_

Neither can remember exactly how they ended up in a loose spoon on the bed, with Sio on the inside, Sherlock's face resting on her splayed hair. It just seemed to happen at some point after their mutual orgasms and before the current moment when their minds returned to functionality.

He moves his hand gently across her shoulder and down her arm. When he rests the arm around her waist she lightly strokes his forearm, vaguely wondering how long it had been since he had stopped flinching at her initial touch.

"Is it like this for everyone?" Sherlock asks quietly.

"What?" Sio answers.

"People who have sex – is it always like _this_?" He tries to clarify.

"Depends on what you mean. Do people get this type of pleasure from sex – I hope so. Sometimes, at least. But is it always this good? I very much doubt it."

"I think maybe I understand more – the lengths people go. But people like…people I know, it seems odd to think they…" he doesn't finish, but she guesses his meaning.

"You can never tell by meeting someone what sort of sex they have. It's really strange because you think you should be able to. I mean, _you_ can deduce what kinks people have based on what you can see, but in terms of how much they do it, how much they enjoy it, what sorts of things they like, it's really difficult to know. I've met very uptight people who were demons in the bedroom and the reverse entirely."

"Strange," Sherlock whispers softly before falling asleep. He finds the possibility of this lack of transparency unsettling.


End file.
